Sunflowers, Ashley Fisher

 In the back garden of the now-boarded
number twenty-nine the eight sunflowers,
visible now the fence has been torn away,

are fading, quietly continuing a cycle, oblivious
to the human chaos which surrounds them.
Plastic plant pots, old Wellington boots, rusted tools

and other objects deemed unworthy of scavenging
are scattered across what was once lawn or have come
to rest at the foot of the remains of the wooden shed

which, come late October, will have value to the kids
who remain in the next street, not scheduled for
demolition until next year (funds permitting).

On the front of the house, a notice declares that
all copper pipes have been removed from the building,
as with all the others in the row. But not number thirty-five.

In number thirty-five, the people remain, a thin curl
of barbed wire topping the border between themselves
and the shells their neighbours once occupied.