Kingcup quaffs its draughts of sun and rain
In cordial measures. Left flush, it fulfills,
Nodding off until time became Britain,
Gilding swamp and marsh with burgeoning grails.
Caltha palustris enthrones April’s weeds
Until - as Isaac usurped Ishmael’s.
Pregnant deeds - it lops and drops its deadheads.
Knautia, your crimson makes memorial
Nothing so lush as marigold’s marsh. Your grave
Abounds in arid soil with roots that run
Under dusty feet – even as Sarah
Tracked her rest among the Hittites, in foreign
Interment – awaiting faith to come alive
Again, reborn among a foreign flora.