Sarah St Vincent Welch #87 Nasturtiums

the last poem chalked

on the arc of the footbridge

– nasturtiums twining

from a suitcase – crept

past the edge dangled

over the freeway, flowers

dusk orange, yellow,

round leaves laughing

at the end of the bridge

a lake, and a rummage,

the secondhand crowd

macramed, bric-a-bracked

steampunked and pumping

with wants of commerce

turning old into gold

the nasturtiums overflowed

thirsty tendrils leapt

into lapels, brims, hairbands,

beards,

wreathed foreheads

and waists,

laced boots and corsets

and bicycle wheels

wrapped the city in

word salad, climbed over

office towers,

reaching to light