We found mushroom flocks
Above our campsite. Hunched against the snivel
Of winter’s Wales, your morning desolation,
We strummed with creamy fingers
Until our box was clogged.
You begged us not to eat them -
A school lesson had made you wary
Of mushrooms. You blubbed
On tip-toe by the rustling pan,
Seeing withered irises.
Unwilling to be left alone,
You confided in us by eating them
That you were committing suicide,
And each mouthful was new courage
To die happy.
Merrick Palmer © 2005.