Poisonous BeautyA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe flowers grew from the craters where The bombs ripped open the ground, Back in that terrible time of war When God in his heavens frowned, I just remember destruction, piles Of bricks where houses had stood, And years along, new growth began Where Airmen lay in the wood.
Their plane came down in the poplar trees That had stood in a long, straight line, Tearing a swathe of destruction through Where we’d played in a former time, And just beyond was the surgeon’s house That had boasted a Roman Spa, Now flat, and exposing the Roman Tiles That survived the previous war.
I’d go down there with Priscilla, who Lived out by the railway track, We’d play our games in the cellars That had lain open, since the attack. I hadn’t taken much notice of The flowers that grew in the weeds, That sprang into life like mushrooms, when The bombs had scattered their seeds.
Priscilla did, she would smell the scent That had wafted up from the flowers, And say, ‘I’ve never seen these before, They’re new, they’re meant to be ours.’ She’d pick the flowers and take them home And attempt to make them thrive, But once removed from their sacred ground They’d rarely stay alive.
I didn’t handle the flowers as much So I wasn’t quite as ill, When she went down with a jaundice that The doctors couldn’t heal. They tried their best and they traced it to The flowers she’d taken home, A level of radioactivity Was the reason that they’d grown.
The ground has been cordoned off for good With a special yellow tape, While she and I are forbidden to go To the place that was our escape. They keep her tied to a wheelchair where They attempt to hide her sores, While I’m in a sort of cage since I Grew skin like the dinosaurs.
David Lewis Paget © 2015 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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Added on September 24, 2015Last Updated on September 24, 2015 Tags: craters, poplar, destruction, flowers Author
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