At the crossroads

a lamppost
is bound with gladioli
cellophane and bows
caked with car filth

the roar and grit
of temper shows
written in tyre bruise
on tarmac

at the cross roads
the willow weeps
a pond full

her hands sit folded in her lap

the ducklings weave
across the water
she will not wear black

Melanie Penycate