The Foxgloves. 13/07/2013. [
I climbed up and walked down the white forest track.
The spruce stood still, obedient in the mid-July heat
A stream trickled by into the granite cracks
Straying branches, machine squashed into the side of trees.
In this place of impressed order, on track and wood,
The nodding foxgloves seemed to recognise my surprise
As busy bumblebees entered each purple hood
Settled, emerged and droned to their secret hides.
A purple line that stretched endlessly along the path
Nature’s infinite herbaceous border designed and planted
In barren ground of dead sticks and stony sand
Each seed genetically happy to where it has landed.
As long as the sun shines somewhere in the dark wood,
That purple flower, a child’s puppet, does the heart good. Bobby Buckley 13/07/13.