Willowherb Poem by Giles Watson

Last winter, incendiaries ignited
A bloom of flame in your bedroom,
And the gramophone gouged
Through ‘Lili Marlene’ one last time
Before the bakelite buckled
And the window-glass turned liquid,
You lying there on the counterpane
As though asleep. The Luftwaffe
Droned your orisons as the rafters
Turned to ash.

And now, high summer –
Your house a withered flower –
The ruins are rank with willowherb,
Your open fireplace gutted, alive
With a rash of pink. A hundred weeds
Spire skyward, their summits flowers
Unbroken, painted magenta. Between six
And seven this morning, the blooms beneath
Opened, stamens primed and ready,
Domed above a gift of nectar.

One storey below, in the willowherb’s
Wall-less house, the styles wear bold
White crosses, beckoning bees
In a mute semaphore. Beneath these,
Pods curve and crack, their seeds
Aloft, alighting where your paraffin fire
Burst in a blaze of gold.

The first war coughed up poppies
From the cold and ruptured earth;
The second, willowherb, for there were
Not widows, but wraiths, with their
Seeds borne on the wind.