Wandering Through Wild Flowers

A Wandering Through Wild Flowers


Snowdrops stoop, then show a startling white
To catch and hold any observant passing eye,
Clustered there at the foot of a frosted tree,
Overhead, a heavily laden, lowering sky.

Bluebells bending and bowing down before
The frisking breeze, that’s blowing through
Shady woods, produce an ever-moving, shifting
Haze that shimmers a wonderfully misty blue.

Daffodils dazzling, always dance delightfully,
Trumpeting for all to see their golden treasure,
Heralding Spring for many, year after year,
Revisiting Wordsworth’s visionary pleasure.

Primroses are playfully perky and peeping
From their clumps deep-set in tufts of grass,
Lifting the weary, raising hearts and spirits
Generating joy to all those who choose to pass.

Buttercups buoyantly there, tenderly tilting
Their yellow shiny faces to the warming sun.
In childhood fingers picked and held them up
To reflect under the tilted chins of everyone.

Clovers’ caressing coverings spread carpets
To provide cushions for all beguiled bare feet,
Hope springs eternal to find elusive four-leaf
Enable an excitement, a wish for a lucky treat.

Daises are dotted, speckling lawns and greens,
Renewed, refreshed, by drenching summer rains,
Distant memories, of happy hours with friends
Bedecking each other with newly linked chains.

Wild wood anemones amaze with colours glorious,
A welcome bonus when found on a country walk.
Cornflowers court, clamour for favourable glance,
Each brilliant blue atop a swaying slender stalk.

Dandelions delicate with puff-ball seeded heads,
Once blown to disperse, counting imagined hours.
Violets, vibrant, coyly vivacious, miniature beauties,
Fragrant, yet so gentle and dainty are their flowers.

Gorses grip tenaciously with razor sharp thorns,
Barricades at which even brave-hearted pause.
Heathers happily spring, even in desolate places,
As far as eyes can see mauve adorns the moors.

Poppies proudly purposeful, petals velvety soft,
Remembrance, reminders of millions of war-dead.
Resplendent, a riot in rebellious abandonment,
In green or golden fields each stand blood-red.

So many wild flowerings are waiting to be seen
Memories brought from the past to close at hand.
A few of my favourites with you I’ve gladly shared
My thoughts of countryside, my beautiful England.