Museum of Science and Industry

More poems by Helen Clare and information about the story behind each poem are available as downloadable documents on the right of this page.

Cotton Boll

In a florists’ window, in the Spanish sun
a tangled cat sleeps on a wreath of cotton bolls.
They are fluffy diamonds in their dry brown claws,
the white straw gold that Rumpelstiltskin spun.

They are fluffy diamonds in their dry brown claws,
they are conker shells whose padding exploded,
the white straw gold that Rumpelstiltskin spun,
dandelion clocks crammed chock into nuts.

They are conker shells whose padding exploded
their seeds held in the cloud like coins in a pudding,
dandelion clocks crammed chock into nuts,
the barbed wire snaggings of cotton boll sheep.

Their seeds held in the cloud like coins in a pudding,
somewhere fields of them bob against bright blue sky -
the barbed wire snaggings of cotton boll sheep.
The dried pods burst and spit their stuff across the globe,

somewhere fields of them bob against bright blue sky
golden as the corn in my picture hymnbook.
Their dried pods burst and spit their stuff across the globe,
small stars around which many worlds revolve.

Golden as the corn in my picture hymnbook,
a tangled cat sleeps on a wreath of cotton bolls -
small stars around which many worlds revolve,
in a florists’ window in the Spanish sun.

By Helen Clare