I'll ask a field of sunflowers to watch this space,
in case you cross from east to west, or north
to south, because it is their way to follow
shining objects in the sky, turning their golden
heads on supple necks like children in a choir,
who watch the maestro's hands, half-mesmerised.
But how do sunflowers comport themselves
when it is night? They droop their heavy heads
disconsolately, as if tired; though secretly,
they're simply sad without their source of light.