My eyes are like the flower alone,
that blooms still despite its place,
amidst the tall grass and privet’s lee,
perhaps by self in solitude sown,
that by seeing too much are drained,
spent as Autumn’s laboured light,
its lucent intent, shy to visit warmth,
upon land by copper-russet stained.
This flower should be taken by a child,
soft loose hands cradling its delicacy
and placed in water within the light,
to fade and wilt far from places wild.