Flowers are reverie and lament – Tim Storrier

With that falling diphthong and mop
of pinker-than-pink chintz whimsy
ballooning from the vase
you might have given your name to girls.

Heavy in the hand as a breast
and veined minutely with this colour
that could be flammable, ballerina skirts
crammed as audaciously
as a British museum with the spoils of the world
you air the room
with the green-scented dust of ancient jade,
temple floors and tea.

Here between the skin soft frills
blood falters, sinks to its centre.
After the party
these vestiges of empire
are shredding from the whole like dreams,
draped with lost pollen across piano keys.