by Finola Scott


I choose some for their heat – scarlet will sing,

fill my winter home with sex, blatant, trumpeting.

Others are pale – pink, white, to add balance, calm.


I don’t know which this is. I didn’t take note,

realise too late. So I wait, prepare for anything,

brace myself for flaming petals. A pussy riot.


Now its snuggles burrowed deep in the cupboard.

I check it now and then. Stealthily it sleeps and grows.

The papery bulb stirs, fat roots unravel, push solid tips


through tight potted loam. Inches its way.

Soon impossible flowers will stand, survey

their domain, drench me.


Finola Scott is published widely in the UK & Eire. Her poems are found on posters, postcards and tapestries as well as in magazines and anthologies including New Writing Scotland, The Fenland Reed and Lighthouse. Current Makar of the Federation of Writers, her pamphlet Much left Unsaid is published by Red Squirrel Press.


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