Earlier they had left flowers for
him
against the corner of the quiet
bridge,
spring flowers for a spring boy,
shiny-light
sun-bright yellow stemmed with
pert green, hope-white -
too early in his years for buds of
blood.
They too had no expectation of
death.
In the moon-drunk night I can see
them still -
slumped over jagged shadows, the
whip-lashed
petals snapped by stone winds, the
stamens crushed.
The pollen may be scattered in the
dust
but I have hopes that dark angelic
bees
harvested death to save the bright
gold grains.
(May,
1993)
