A poem by Emily Hasler.

Thing is, in April or May, when the Hoary cress appears, I’m
already picturing her younger, leggier cousin: Dittander, froth
of full summer. If the older is crucifer, bearing the cross,
Dittander is the brass in brassica, the fin-de-siècle attitude;
petticoats to the sky in cancan. So here I am in springtime,
wishing for the brink of autumn, because I see it coming—the
serrated spears piercing the seawall.

*

Taken from Emily’s latest collection ‘Local Interest’, newly published by Pavilion Poetry.