Cherry blossoms blow their tears on the little bluebells
I need to walk by them everyday bunched by the lamppost
Where always I notice their small heads sighing by children
Who terrorise their flowers with kicking and hiding games
And terrorise my mind with the work for my busy fingers
The frilly blue hoods cry at the foot of the sky that is grey
Everything I walk by, see and detect in my head seems grey
All but the bells heads, their syrup like blueness. Sad bluebells
Need me to walk by them everyday, for vanity is my fingers
And everything else should be ignored even your long lamppost.
They always start the flirting dance blowing, blushing mind games
Over to me then we both shyly smile, in our fleeting love, like children.
I don’t know where they used to hide when we were children
Maybe because we saw colours like red and yellow but never grey
They all zoomed by in my childhood eye when playing silly games.
I suppose through that I forgive those who threaten the life of bluebells
When they kick and hide and use the light that shines from the lamppost
That slips through my lonely hands and trembles my fingers.
I could never try to advertise you through my fingers
Only a lonely permission you give me by the children
If only I could take your sad heads from that lamppost
I’d have you for a day but then everything would turn grey
You’d die and you’d wither and you’d cease to be bluebells
And we could never glance shyly or play our sweet love games.
I’ve used your nectar and your brain dust for my games
Your blue heads I’ve scribbled and purged with my fingers
Until you are small blue blobs instead of sharp bluebells.
Tendrils spiral out from over the heads of small children
And the petals of the cherry blossoms swim into the grey
Pavement at sundown beside the flowering long lamppost.
I want to fence off the bluebells that sleep at the lamppost
I want to bless them with dew then we’ll end all our silly games
And seal off the dangers from the crawling of the pavement, grey
In the morning and grey in the evening. So how can my fingers
Transport all the melancholy and the dangers of small children?
You send your blueness all over the white skyline. Little bluebells,
Friendless bluebells sighing by the long lamppost
Don’t worry about children and all of their silly games
I’ll relive you through my fingers before you turn grey.
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Submission Name: Sestina for bluebells
