Oh, purple, pouting flower
towering over me,
won’t you tell how you got your name?
Through tales of gifting socks and gloves
to heavy-pawed foxes
(thereby lessening the chance of them alerting prey).
Are they true?
These legends, these yarns?
Who can say, curious one?
I have flowered and perished
and flowered again
many times.
Any tales about my past
may contain slices of truth,
or none.
Surely you must know
of one that’s factual?
Come on, share.
Please.
Have you heard of dead men’s bells?
No?
An alternative term spoken in some parts,
spun from whispers
discussing my aptitude for raising the fallen
and souring the living.
You’re a wild thing, then?
Doing what you will
with any who trample your roots?
Nay, it’s simpler than that.
If a failing heart and high blood pressure
lay among a person’s troubles,
ingesting the right dosage
of my leafy makeup
can send the reaper scarpering from their door.
Nip too much, however,
and even the healthiest of souls
might find themselves snoozing
with the worms.
And other creatures?
What do they think of you?
Ask the carder bees.
Watch them kiss each tubular set of lips
and run off with pockets full of brilliant powder.
Listen as their buzzing wings proclaim
not all riches are jingling coins,
and I am a mine of treasures.
This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!
[Apologies for how these poems are formatted. I do write them in stanzas, but WordPress rarely decides to keep them, no matter how much I argue with it.]
Treeshallow Musings 