Pillow flower drifts elegantly,
floating higher and higher into
abyss of the suffocating blue,
till it was only a lost memory,
sinking further away.
It’s stone pillar of a stem, was
rooted to the ground as it’s
paper thin, albino petals, slowly
met the floor where they shriveled
up like dead worms. It’s pollen was
like stolen sugar from the back of
the cupboard or sand stuck to your
feet, annoying your mum when it is
spread through the house. It’s slender thin
stem like a ballerinas waist.
The Weeping oak’s branches
stretch out like a bullying boys
arm, it’s twigs sprouting new buds.
She whispers her secrets to the wind,
forming a blanket that wraps around
her. It’s crooked fingered roots
engrave itself in the home made biscuit
like soil, crumbling to make
an over hanging hole, revealing her
rough roots as if it were rough, bruised skin.
As if it were waiting for someone, the
Weeping oak longingly stood there,
looking all droopy and sad.