Thursday, 8 April 2010


Think circadian, lion-maned
pincushion. For days
the sunflower prowls,
flares for a season, only to die
as predestined,

an inglorious death,
the drained petals reduced
to insipid paper,
the seed-head hub sinking
into brown, grey

then black and such a deadened,
one-eyed stare
that if put inside a coop,
will scare the hens,
put them off laying

as from inside
their ugly capsule the seeds
rattle a warning
to return and once again
stalk the sun.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

P.S. If you don't believe me re the hens ... go to this link (The comments are interesting too!)


Julie Jordan Scott said...

Ahhh, I adore sunflowers. They have always seemed 'almost sentient' to me.... lovely words to match here... of their cycle.

Thank you.

. said...

The first plant I ever grew from seed :)


Kay Cooke said...

Julie - I love the idea of sunflowers being 'almost sentient'. Thanks for your lovely comment.

Hemulen - Thanks so much. I've never actually grown them myself ... but intend to one of these years.

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