The Irish Literary Times

Cinnabar

Going to rinse the saucepan, I spy
a rose petal in the sink: bent purple,
withered in this high-seventies weather,
most unseasonable of seasons.

Somehow circumvented angles
of back yard, oil tank and washing-line,
through kitchen window, onto an
irregular place of rest.

Leaning in, I find its being:
a red cabbage leaf from last night’s
salad, a beauty non-transferable,
utterly throwaway.