A poem based on the Victorian flower symbolism of buttercups as 'promised riches.'
|Harebell mist softens the hills|
Decked with silver grass tails and graceful glades grand.
The air, sweet from rain-drenched land,
Fills with birds' ceaseless contemplative trills.
These beauties are neglected. A smaller thing holds sway.
On free meadow or oppressed lawn shedding hope's light
Buttercup coins wink bold and bright,
Sapping magic from the earth and sun from day.
Buds clasped tight, unnoticed they swell to open.
Resenting, deceiving, jostling, they strive to open.
If one scorns the hoard doubt fills them-
Would not more bees lap their chalice
Had they leaped at the promise?
Finally, enthroned on a battlement stem,
Flowers unfurl from a satin heart
Kingcup- an apt name for the crowned top.
Unashamed, perfect starry faces fragment portraits of the sun.
Till they who turned from truer beauties find a barbed mace where once was gold.