She sits bright red on her stem,
Blushing as the cold draws near.
Twisting to the rhythm of the days,
Her sistren line dark limbs as they dance.
She is the first to tear away,
Twirling and gliding to freedom on the floor.
Her flight is swift and thrilling,
The dirt rising up to meet her back too soon.
She loses her vibrancy as she sprawls,
Staring up at the brilliant crimson she used to be.
Sistren behold their fallen,
But dance ever closer to their own cliff’s edge.
Rowan Liddell 