Their late blooming spears spill from my beds reliable as the poppy pinned to your coat well into November leave ointment pink medals like skin grafts on fallen leaves the lapsing ghosts of stems, and I think they are taking back their dead sentries for a season and they’re done the whole year’s flowering fallen to the ploughshare. Then December with its carolling drunks arrives like a regimental train its run of blood-red indulgence cutting winter in two. Clare Phillips lives in Dumfries and Galloway, home to Scotland's and is a poet, Quaker, and Scottish Green. She has read at the Bakehouse in Gatehouse-of-Fleet and been published locally by Markings and Southlight for over twenty years.

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