How dare you cut flowers to pose in fake attitudes?
Pleasing postures, carefully consigned, and juxtaposed
in angular striation, violating the bounds of nature and growth.
You barely see the decay around the curled edges
of souls dying in stagnant water, colours screaming
as they bleed into the dark. Leave well alone:
even in the garden they won’t live forever
but they will swell to seed and as they die into crusty coffins
new life springs and God the gardener smiles.