More solemn than a small child’s sulk my sunflower hangs its head, heavy with seed. Its leaves are withered, papery and grey. It looks like grief. I have watched its sunlit face upturned, a whorled mosaic, geometric wonder. From edge to centre, each green floret burst rich with pollen and a drop of nectar drawing bees to fill the comb for winter. Now bedded in its drooping head is seed enough to scatter over half a field yield golden oil, nourish wintering birds or flow from the baker’s hand to sprinkle bread so does it matter that the rest is dead?