I carry them to your house on my back, uprooted 
flowers, I’m bent double with the weight of them.
(Aztec love song)

To you, I'm coming to you, to your house
with these uprooted flowers on my back
this golden rod, these willow herb,
the tall dying flowers of the moors and verges
in sheaves, in armfuls, tied into bundles
and slung across my back.
I'm bringing them to you with the earth
dropping in tiny crumbling granules
from their roots, to you, to show you
that their time is up and gone
no way to plant them again
in the ground, amongst the grass along the lanes.

They are uprooted and dying as I walk,
their roots exposed and drying
their leaves wilted and curling
they are for you, for you, and I will
bring them to your door, great mounds of them,
the weight of them bending me double
giving me backache, buckling my knees,
drenching me in sweat.
You need to see them, beautiful and dead,
smell their green sappiness,
smell the soil falling from their roots.
I will leave them at your door.