I wake.
The sky is clear blue
above the rooftops
whose shadows the sun
sharpens on the grass.
Dew on bare toes,
the limb-caressing air,
my garden breathes, waits, breathes
for you
these flowers . . .
I gather them against my breasts
and lay them flat
on a cold slab,
cut, then grasp their stems as one:
to place in the red flower vase

Words by Nigel Morgan.,
inspired by the textile images of Janet Bolton.