Flowers

the petals tremble
their bright blue soothes the eye
the crows bounce in the grass
like clowns or comedians
like babies or the bourgeoisie
first the planes overhead
then the sound of propellers
one imagines a lilting tree
ants crawling across the pages of a book
the single oak lets fall its shade
like a lake like dark waters at night
the gars are rising
brushing past us as we drown