Please don't squeeze the daffodil

Please don't squeeze the daffodil that's sitting on my window sill. It's yellow has more time to give before it browns like scorched sun burns. it's petals have lasting mantel turns to point with hope at lazing brows of sleeping grass and mellow hills where shadows cast a tonal turn as cooled by drafts from summer's breeze.

fantasy ATM

The digital screen reads 'Insert card'.
So I do
and punch in my pin
to access my account.
How many friends do you require?
it asks and lists a series of figures
bullet pointed by arrows in line
with stainless steal buttons
on the side of the panel.
I select one in the middle
knowing I want more
but wary of what I can afford
to keep my balance in the black.
Before it spews my modest request
from its slim jaws
into my hand for me to pocket,
it has a final question;
do you require a receipt?

window washer

Men arrive to wash the windows.
The sun is bright but will later on be brighter.
I close the curtains to maintain my privacy.
The temperature drops.
The slops of soap sponges seeps in
as they wipe away the grime.
Silence returns.
I open the curtains.
I have a clearer view through the glass
as the men depart.

at the front 2

I am a snowflake
surrounded by white stars
blue bottles
cider drinkers

Empty

I inhale smoke as though
it can fill the emptiness
but it drifts in
and blows out
and am left only
with destruction
and the possibility
of lung disease

I drink strong coffee as though
it can fill the emptiness
but I swallow it
and pee it out
and I am left only
with dehydration
and the possibility
of a sleepless night

Crane

black crane
on floating buoy
red bill
takes off
dips his feet
skims the water
beets his wings
parallel above the surface
and across the harbour

orange crane
on floating pontoon
cables form angles
motionless isosceles
without its operator
it echoes lines
of yachts rigging
spinnaker
across the harbour

Watching

I am watching everything and he is watching me. I capture what I see in words on lines; he saves his to memory. Which of us will have the better recall, later, when we are home and reality is gone? I want to ask why he comes here to sit alone, but fear his reply will be 'why do you?' then what would I say - 'to write of you'?

at the front

flap your hover
screaming gull
dreaming
of scraps thrown
over rocks
blown sidewards
into the chase
on breeze stream
updraft waving
sudden flock
and back again
swoop your circle
your rounding troupe
of feathered dipping
bobbing pecks
a racket
drowned a side fly drop
dry leaves scuttle
dash the way
of herringbone paving
darkening grey
a chorus of cloud
rumbles thunder
engines approaching