They send out seedsmoke, a nudging, thrusting, abundance
hiding, gliding over fences, hitching rides on unsuspecting sheep;
oozing, cruising the landscape, streaming, teeming magenta.
Each year the same. Hair-triggered by
every wisp of breeze, sailing over roadsides,
golf courses, building sites, aiming to colonise the planet
with rosebay confetti, rising like the phoenix.
Fran Baillie was the only one in the family, apart from the cat, who didn’t have a degree, so she went and got one and began to write and hasn’t stopped since. She has been published in Octavius, Gutter, Northwords. Glad Rag, etc., and was runner-up in the Wigtown Poetry Competition 2 years ago.