Tuesday, April 5, 2016

A flowery tale in heirlooms

The Canterbury bells ring
every day at four o' clock
when the lassie panting
in a baby’s breath
fox gloved and in cotton
run across being
love in a mist, awaiting
the lads, prim in their
bachelor’s button, for the
the customary rite of love
in the morning glory
of the day after
black eyed Susan vine
remained a wallflower
in the Chinese houses
while the bells of Ireland
rang in the cosmos.