Bulbs

Spring Bulbs, Luss

Hunting treasures on the shore

But finding none of note

I meandered carwards, one among our straggly crowd

And spied a string of bulbs aloft.

Rain-soaked, spattered and shattered

They spoke to me of poetry:

A melancholy parody of parties past

Shades of bright nights and laughter

Former glories and hangovers fading ‘til

Forgotten.

Would I have made a picture had they been intact?

I doubt it.

Whole, they’d sit among the gnomes and wagon wheels

A bland brand statement of personality

Bought in bulk from B&M.

But broken, battered, clinging on against the odds

Suffering soakings, limply accepting spider silks as

Adornment

They caught my eye as my eye is often caught

By things left out to rot.