Last winter, incendiaries ignited br A bloom of flame in your bedroom, br And the gramophone gouged br Through ‘Lili Marlene’ one last time br Before the bakelite buckled br And the window-glass turned liquid, br You lying there on the counterpane br As though asleep. The Luftwaffe br Droned your orisons as the rafters br Turned to ash. br br And now, high summer – br Your house a withered flower – br The ruins are rank with willowherb, br Your open fireplace gutted, alive br With a rash of pink. A hundred weeds br Spire skyward, their summits flowers br Unbroken, painted magenta. Between six br And seven this morning, the blooms beneath br Opened, stamens primed and ready, br Domed above a gift of nectar. br br One storey below, in the willowherb’s br Wall-less house, the styles wear bold br White crosses, beckoning bees br In a mute semaphore. Beneath these, br Pods curve and crack, their seeds br Aloft, alighting where your paraffin fire br Burst in a blaze of gold. br br The first war coughed up poppies br From the cold and ruptured earth; br The second, willowherb, for there were br Not widows, but wraiths, with their br Seeds borne on the wind.