A cloudburst blasts the window breached
by cricket ball that broke the peace.
Storm’s diplomats create a din
and bloat the papered walls for no-one’s in.
For no-one’s in. The plane unpacked mid-air
and scattered over fields like golden grain:
her floral summer dress buds on a branch,
their baby’s pacifier thorns entwine.
A conference of flies attend the fruit,
tomatoes on the vine set to explode.
We are the gardeners, but we cannot pick
the harvest nor the garden. We must dig.
Image: CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of Pawel Kadysz, Stocksnap.io