Nature’s ability to create wonder and peace never fails me.


Coyly stood amongst the meadow grass, pastel Polka-dots on a canvas of green,

like floral gems strewn, they lift the bland, rendering the perfect country scene

for a summer afternoon.

Each year they come, a delicate scented beauty that caresses the waking land,

as if the perfection they bring, could only be created by some divine hand,

and sown from an angel’s wing.

Some are taken though, by loving children who lack the florist’s skill,

ripped from the loam, to briefly shine from a jar on the window sill,

a gift for Mum brought home.

I was one such boy, entranced by this kaleidoscope vision above nature’s norm.

which in memory was to ever remain, so even now a meadow can transform,

this man into child again.

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