Search Website
Close Search Pane
Toggle Menu


The show takes place on the edge
of the car park. We sit in our cars,
engines cooling, as swirling red stamens
thrust off their woody caps.

Old blossoms wither,
new ones open, blue-grey leaves
drill holes into air, making spaces
in the sky for flowers to fit.
Stamens crackle open, 
articulate in the wind,
like coryphées with their feet
buried in the earth.

They seem to be laughing at us,
racing around in our shiny cars,
trying so hard to be beautiful.

Go to Nandi Chinna's profile to read more poems