Dahlia (Poetry)

Late to the party, she turns her face
towards the host.
Tired, the sun smiles to greet her
singles her from the crowd
who droop a little
having blossomed at the start.

She makes the most of it —
drinks down the dregs of warmth —
takes what is left of comfort
from the season’s closing hour —
still fresh, she holds her fleshy petals proud
her circled skirt unblemished.

She leans away from her bull-necked stake —
the trusty chaperone she has grown used to —
and flirts with drunken bees, now elderly
who appreciate her freshness in contrast
to the faded ones whose sweetness
they already plundered in their youth.

The air begins to chill — gate-crashing shadows
jostle amongst the hedgerows, lounge at will
and taunt with threats of frost.
She is a hardy cultivar — undaunted, though she feels
the earwig burrow deeper in her heart and
the whole garden hold its breath.