Dead Bulb (Poetry)

The first grey light of morning touched the shoot,
teased its freshness, flirted with this blind
young hopeful thrusting through the compost’s crust,
egged on, its greeness gauche and poorly timed.

The days too cool, the bitter wind too harsh
for anything to bud or blossom yet,
and disillusioned by the fickle sun,
it grew no more, as though it should forget

the sap’s first surge — that moment of release,
the faith that drew it, stretching for the blue,
an empty husk below. The fool of love,
it withered, turned to brown, as though it knew.