In the meadow the anemone
is creaking open to the dawn.
By noon, the sky’s polyphony
will flood her white lap till she drowns.

The tiny muscle in her star
is tensed to open to the All,
yet the daylight’s blast so deafens her
she barely heeds the sunset’s call

or finds the willpower to refurl
her petal-edges – her, the power
and will of how many other worlds.

In our violence, we outlive her.
But which new life will see us flower
and face the skies, as true receivers?

(version by Don Paterson)


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