Bitter, milky, hollow stalks.
We picked and blew dandelion clocks,
filling the air with clouds of down,
flouting warning and superstition –
resultant damp on morning’s mattress.

Now the minutes lift my thoughts
curry them off
to germinate somewhere.
I’m still that girl on the yellow polka lawn –
it’s only the wind that changed in caution.

© Caroline Fox Betts 2010

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