At a distance she is nestled
Amid Cornflowers and Mallow,
And Chicory, Dropwart, the type that’s market sold,
Harvested from fields a year left fallow
So that fair blooms can sit in, fair fields of flowers.
Her Feverfew shade, in the breeze, rocks slowly
And as her book pages turn they whisper, farewell,
To Lupin and Lady Bedstraw, lovers but lowly
Who eloped on Jacob’s Ladder, or so the author tells.
Her blush is like Hound’s-Tongue, as they walk from cover to cover.
Agrimony and Bettony mark the boundary
Of the muslin, ribbon adorned frame
That forms the Chamomile hat she likes to carry
Upon her blonde head, whilst the sun does not refrain
From bearing down on her Yarrow, gossamer dress.
MT.
