the internalised clock ticking. Two children like scored goals.
Now, I urge my daughter, ‘Disobey! Nature is full of holes.’

I’m obeying Yoko Ono’s instructions, her event score,
PAINTING FOR THE WIND. Imagination is the only law.

Ono’s instructions are to fill a bag with seeds of any kind.
The bag is a bread bag with a few crumbs left behind.

A sticker on the bag tells me the bread was ‘tangy and nutty.’
In the garden, I harvest seeds from yellow poppies.

I try to fill the paper bag, but it is so full of emptiness.
I milk one pod into the palm of my hand and can’t resist

licking the little black grains, disobeying the foraging code.
They taste nutty. I panic, check for side effects. Real toads?

I feel lightheaded, but a glass of wine and I recalibrate.
The list of Don’ts when pregnant: alcohol, raw fish, grapes

for God’s sake. In some countries, poppy seeds are banned
for their morphine. I’ve nothing to declare, nothing contraband.

I’m walking round a muddy nature reserve in north London.
My epidural had morphine. I remember my legs feeling undone

like liquid sunshine. Rain is piercing the lake with silver pins.
I stop at an elder tree with a split trunk like conjoined twins.

Through their Y, a field is framed where once I saw deer cross.
Here is a good spot to cut a hole in the bread bag. No scissors –

I improvise with Ono’s instructions and tear off a corner. Freed!
Let the wind do its work. Let the wind paint with poppy seeds,

but the wind can’t be commanded. It calmly disobeys.
I shake the bag. The seeds are small, some leave, some stay.

A few will yolk the ground, hopefully, find fertile soil –
grow their own wild way. I’ll recycle the paper bag and its hole.