Poppies..

Three dollars a bunch from the man at the Sunday market. I buy two, bring them home and unwrap the purple tissue paper.

Some go in the kitchen in a pottery vase on the table, the others in a glass jar by the front door. Just before midnight on my way to bed I notice that the tallest poppy has opened. She's taken off her coat – dropped it from her shoulders onto the table to reveal the fold of her dress. A swish of apricot taffeta. The woman beside her is muffled and stiff. Her lemon skirt's scrunched inside her hood -or is it an arm poking out of her sleeve? Another has her head lifted towards the ceiling-the green coat tangled around her neck. The one beside her can only stare at the dress leaking out from under her like blood ready to spill.

The women by the front door are too chilled to move. Mouths stuck for words - waiting on warmth to speak. The sun should wake them.


In the morning I take a handful to school and put them in a vase on my desk. Just before lunch, Niamh the little Irish sweetheart stops as she's reading her work aloud and asks "what are dose things?" Niamh has a slight lisp. da for the, pwease for please.. Poppies I tell her - but they're really girls about to go dancing when they're warm enough. They'll slip off their coats and dance in the sun.. "Ohh" she squeals and touches the petals. The boys on her table come over to look and Niamh tells them the story. By the time the bell for play has gone the last two women have had their coats taken from them. The crisp green hoods are souvenired then lost on the classroom floor.

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Mum sticks poppy petals on to a home-made card .."your favourites".. The petals have the feel of paper and look like butterfly wings. Pollen dust smudges my fingers when I open the envelope.


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Colours of fire, earth and sun,
Creased, pressed, still.
Tongues tied up inside mouths waiting to speak-
they are holding the peace.
Drooped folds, gathered skirts.
They nudge each other in the water.
A bristle of hair,
A mouth split open to show a puckered smile.
Tiny capes on the table.
Fine yellow needles, dusty tops, cup waists.

These women are strong, stooped, bowed, looped, stuck, tucked, short.
They lean into each other's arms-
Thin bodies standing in the deep.
Drinking in sunlight- held in the moonlight.


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A week later they’ve lost their looks. I take them out to the garden and lay them under the eaves.

Buy two more bunches.