YELLOW FLOWERS, OTUREHUA.(Poem)

 
   There's a field of rampant, pale yellow flowers 
   east of the road north of Oture. 
   Thirty acres of the bloody stuff, the farmer says, 
   and I'm damned if I know what it's called. 
   Unobtrusive for months, now it's grown like fury 
   beneath wide skies where clouds are stalled. 
 
   I can't tell him the name either. He says, 
   with a dismissive sweep of a hand, 
   the sheep don't like it much, so I guess 
   it's there to stay. Its roots go deep, which, 
   given his surname, irks to understand 
   his attachment here, too. There's a rich 
 
   vein of family ...