You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics? ~ Pablo Neruda
I've neither imagination nor Mediterranean mind for such a question - only the Norse notion that pastel and bold never mix that Syringa Springs are all the more sweet paving the way where papaver blazes with desire and a kind of fire stolen from Olympus Because men have battled for grounds dripping humors into the very earth they stood for poppy has taken metaphysical shape black as bile to the core scarlet and sanguine in a mass for the dead requiems to paper thin mortality Seeing these metaphors transplanted to context yours is no discarnate poetry fleeting as a fad nor baroque conceit heavily laden in odes where death itself is undone as a poppy dream - you heard dust settling with an unsettling peace and people craving melodies that match the picturesque but the poet mournful in lilac refuses such communing
© Laura Granby 2016