The same congested intersection
waits for me every morning.
It looks like a roundabout,
but isn’t. With traffic
coming from every direction,
no-one is quite sure of the rules.
All the time the tension
of impending collision
vibrates through the tarmac.
Decades ago a lover
had a job planting daffodils
in a series of highway roundabouts.
I think of him crouching down, hands
gently planting the bulbs, the traffic
carouselling around him. But he probably
just tossed them in any which way,
covered them over,
thousands more to plant,
leaving them to push their way
up to the light at the centre
of an urban universe, springing
into great wheels of colour
somewhere between stop and go.
Vanessa Proctor is president of the Australian Haiku Society. Her poetry, as well as appearing in print, has been carved in stone, printed on teabag labels and set to music.
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