Thursday 12 October 2023


The sunflowers my mother bought
wept over the kitchen floor 
this morning, their scent overpowering - 
wet carpets, mothballs.
Or something older, an odour
too close to human, for comfort.

A flower seems such a harmless thing,
stuck in a painted vase,
petals shaking off at the lightest touch,
or no touch at all.

And yet, I am driven far away, 
wanting nothing more of their glorious black,
the gold I sought - only days ago,
when my mother brought them home. 

(c) Shaista Tayabali, 2023

Paintings: Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)
OLN night at DVerse Poets