When The Palash Tree Drops All Her Claret Petals Poem by Mark Heathcote

Oh, the rain it woke me
When heavy curtains flapped about
When I felt like a sleepy crimson waterlily
Suddenly awoken, given a loving clout.

But there were no fishy fishtails
Flapping here's about…
Oh, isn't it queer how light switchblades
How we're too like puppets & puppeteers.

Oh, how happy I shall be when all is over
When the Palash tree drops all her claret petals
On the rose colored floor, oh, it's as if hot burning lava
With sunken eyes had touched Apollos shores
And not his ashen hot skies.