Flowers look wild when alone in the mud,
rebellious or adventurous to break from the pack.
I can see it there, look there, despite that lamppost that isn't on,
from the windowsill of one of the countries where they still hate you.
My abstract-primary-colours-ish-speckled-arrow-headed pebble
(you know, my memento from our first horrible holiday)
is getting covered in more flaking paint from the pebble-dashed urn
(you know, my memento from our second ghastly get-away).
They talk to each other when I'm
not there, even without phones.
I'm mildly suspicious.