Plasphodel
Ramona Herdman
I’m settled, now. Each spring, I know,
the house across from the shop
puts out its plastic daffs
on the table, in the bay.
And long ago and far away
my dead dad sneaks, overnight,
to plant a plastic yellow bunch
of fakes amongst his lover’s flowerbeds
(before she died, this is) – a tease
that took her in, almost to August.
This is the way the seasons go.
The way someone unseen puts out
a weird and plastic tribute. Out of love,
we have to hope.
This piece of writing is featured in PEN’s e-book, “The Dictionary of Made-Up Words”, made in partnership with the European Commission Representation in the United Kingdom. Read the whole book!
