We can all be wildflowers planted in the wrong place

The fields were empty of horses this morning – the animals are in their summer pastures below and only the butterflies danced across acres of creamy yarrow before the tractor comes to make hay.

Yarrow is a weed but there’s something about wildflowers – the chaotic way they spread their blooms given the chance and yet the effect they produce is usually just as good if not better than any professional gardener. The yarrow drifts across the tall grass like thin clouds streaking a summer sky.  

Meadow Seekers

Tipping the yarrow heads
they dance beguiled,
drawn in by the wild bouquet.
Lighter than a leaf released from tree,
they fly on errant breeze across
the petalled cream
in search of nectar.
Each probing pirouette,
each dainty dalliance,
more gentle than a baby’s breath.
Enamelled Blue; Fritillary;
Brown with painted eye;
the merry travellers
scatter pollen to the wind
and in a blink move on.
That was yesterday,
before the hay was made.
Now they are gone –
their gift
an evanescent memory.

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About jaytale

My name's Jill but I'm Jack of all trades and master of none. I've been writing, mainly poetry and short pieces for a long time and decided to concentrate a little harder to see if I can master this at least. I paint both the house and pictures when inspiration strikes. I am a country bumpkin who loves to be outdoors and enjoy meeting interesting people.
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