Lonelily

I imagine a hillside, covered in low gorse ground
That crunches underfoot like shells on a beach.
A piece of driftwood lies on that beach, pointing
Like an old, arthritic finger into the melodramatic sky.
The sky drifts, darkens, disguises itself under a cloak
In a thousand shades of black under which a man
Shines a bulbous, yellow plastic battery torch.
Light speckled like an egg through the weave.

The torch reflects off the ground. God's looking for
His keys. Couldn't open the gates yesterday, he's
Got a queue going. He bends a bony digit towards
The beach of shining shell pieces that don't exist.
He sees a flower. Trampled and crushed under
Stampeding steps, yet still glowing in the torchlight
On the cloak-covered, tide-covered low gorse ground.