At twilight we set off walking
down the neglected wilderness
that springs up between
tidy rows of foursquare houses
and silvery rushing trains.

There we come upon a garden tangled
with the white doilies of a dead queen
dropletted bloodred with stepmother doom.

Firework blooms of spray and spike
burst from banks of thick-bladed fieldgrass.

Vines festoon the fenceline with floral
syringes and spiteful fruit.

Waste weighs hazardous against rail-straight
geometries of manmade landscape.

Ephemeral plant skeletons brown to
prickly fists poised in counterpoint.

Hollyhock unfurls a dangerous pink,
startling against gravel grey and timber brown.

Thistle flower throws some lurid purple on the scene.


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