by Byron Beynon

Found on hedge-banks
they were Keats' favourite flower,
straggling stems in April and May
prized with a depth of style.

Inhabitants of landscape,
insiders of nature designed
to preserve the pure value of attention,
working their own capable way.

Near summer's doorstep,
bleeding like arterial blood
a variety of purple and blue shades
watching the sudden daylight.

Who cares for this plant?
A poet's indolence
dreams of love's futility
with small petals cupped in a mortal palm.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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