their heads towards the rain
Like giraffes trying to drink
But they'll never drink again
The shrivelled soil in their pots points to their decay
Our neglect, like fathers or uncles, while a mother is away
Who can't (or don't) keep their child
fed, and clothed, and kept from going wild.
The weeks of sun seemed long, and while
I was immersed in rhymes, I know
I should probably have found the time
To give the kids a drink, and kept them from going wrong.
When you voiced your disappointment
I couldn't meet your eyes.
and later on it felt like it was too late to apologise.
So I hope this poem helps us see eye to eye
And let it be
An apology
That I let your flowers die.
