Poppies

Today I will plant myself by this lonely ditch,
The seed of a weed, surplus to this world.
For I have wandered in search of a welcome,
In return for a smile, poetry and song.

But while my concertina may be pleasing to you,
The daughter behind my skirts is viewed with disdain.
My fruit of love, bruised and stained
Is an affront to the sensibilities of God-fearing folk.

So wet through we huddle and await metamorphosis,
I close my eyes and hum a lullaby.
Eventually we will meld into the landscape;
From human detritus to two perfect poppies.