Fringe flower
Small fragile
as if a piece of
bone china with a
creamy sheen landed
on cobblestones of
a Dublin street
she walked there those
uneven stones
beneath her feet
pasty hand clasped
secure in his grip
her eyes protruded
to try to touch
lifeless buildings
carriages horses
cobblestones below
life seemed slow
but then that grip
was not meant to be
as he boarded the ship
that carried him over a sea
today a purple bract
displays in its usual way
one might ask whether its
a maiden or a quean
as pollinators stream
under the cover of sun
toward the purple one
poem by Walter Durk
Added by Poetry Lover
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