Like lips behind a veil
The poppies rest under the oats;
Lips parting in sleep,
As though night were hot about them,
Touching the souls they speak for with sensual fires;
These lips not petals.
But here it is summer morning,
Cool after the pride-shower;
The smoke goes up in prayer from the village,
And the hills are monks stooping under a hood of mist,
This is surely a virgin moment.
Then what is this fantasy of the poppies?
Poppies, Richard Church
This year wild poppies popped up again on the Hill,
fluttering like butterflies in the wind amidst the usual riot of other spring
blossoms. Time was when I hoped that, suitably cared for and encouraged to
thrive, they would eventually make my fortune.
People with more information in their heads than romance in
their souls soon dashed that hope; it’s a different species of poppy that keeps
Afghan warlords in new weaponry (so goodbye to my long-dreamed-of pair of
Purdeys – or even McKay Browns for that matter).
But I still love it when they crop up here, and take it as a
sign that the soil is slowly improving on the Hill, and becoming a haven for
all sorts of wildflowers, rather than just weeds as in the beginning. Bees must
come next.
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