Drought by Gwyneth Lewis

It needed torching, all that boring moor
above the village. I planted seeds
in several places till the spindly gorse

bore crimson flowers all around its own
of yellow, then collapsed in black.
Borders I planted with exotic blooms

then I watched as arson laid a smoky lawn
as far as the tree line. Beneath its grass
grew a snowdrop season of broken glass.

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