MENNA ELFYN.

Cell Angel.

Wild flowers

Behind bars, the lay judges hold court. Before them,

I flower as bravely as campion, although

I'm truly the weakest of vessels

But I can't pretend. They can see,

although I look like nightshade

I am the most shrinking violet.

The bittersweet climbs toward me. A harebell leans over me

and knows that I never was torn, never plucked from the hedge.

I never felt man's hand like a blade at the back of my neck.

I've dwelt among untrodden ways.

They give judgement swiftly, together. I am

not brave, but stupid. And blind. A woman who'd be scared

if a butterfly followed her. What sort of girl would forgo

the random, nectarish Saturdays of youth,

the pleasures of the hedge? They pity

my sober sepals, these scarlet pimpernels.

My arms bear no needle-scars. I suck no stub to ward off pain.

I am unmanacled. I've had a shady hollow

among petals which have seen hurricanes and cruel reapings.

The time has come to testify -

to graffiti, on the tabula rasa of the wall,

three long-stemmed poppies in paradise -

here's the red poppy on parade, triumphing death

though the meadows still run with the stain of blood,

here's the white one I wear as a bone of peace

each November, defying war's pieties;

and here amI, the Welsh poppy, head bent -

our spinelessness a yellow fever.

The judges left, smiling at a humble poppy

on the crest of her anger. A stalk bending in the wind.