In love with height, these are flowers
in flight, a cloud, flocked together –
plumed, implausible, soaring tribe,
pink beaks lifted up to the sky,
their pods whisper to each other
about a shift in the weather
splitting them open, letting fly
winged curls of seeds – their own
downy nests drift home, drift high;
the whole slope, a snow-globe
of blooms dreaming they are birds,
migrating as summer swiftly fades –
on the other side of the dunes,
the sea, like a mother, calling.
By Linda France
September 2015