Silken snapdragons, swaying on stalk tower, 

open their mouths. The tiny roars of colour

— sherbet, red velvet, purple wine — bees waltz 

in haloes around them, sever the thread from earth 

& float float to high heaven, leaven the bread of 

story & song      —      we are coming out of winter now.


I sit on the steps, chewing fat, smoking time, watching 

flowers push up, between empty bottles, chip packets & 

coiled curses — struggling, finding a way, like ideas do,     like we do.


I forgot I’d even planted them, in an hour of loss, 

in a moment of need, in long, dark months when my 

brain was jewelled in crystals & frost.


         yes, I’d scattered the seed.

Omar Musa reads 'Tiny Roar'