Heres the thing about daisy chains -
theyre not all about fucking.
There are delicate links between
those frayed flower heads -
saffron gold at core,
and the greenstick stems I split and
tear with my ripped nails -
so much for vanity
The secret to looping daisy chains
is to take the impact head,
and stab it gently through the needle eye.
Now for the joining -
tying those sailor knots
around my ankle, swollen from the heat,
my fingers brush the static of black corn
The skin smells of salt sunshine there -
we too are upside down and fed
hook and eye like this, sap body to starhead,
seamstress and fabric - threads
If I had a flower for each time,
there would be a mountain of dead daisies -
dry crush, a distillation,
the scent of an atom, chain reaction
But I simply bear the weight of
their closed fists, an ex Queen of the May -
my six point garland trampled
when I was last barefoot in your garden.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah Davies would be
pleased to hear from you.