Poised on the south-west tip
Of an island,
Words poised on the tip
Of my pen,
I overlook the Cornish country
Penned within a garden.
Somewhere in the books
That surround me,
I could find their names –
The pinks and yellows,
Reds and blues
That populate my vision
With their gaudy blooms.
But I am here to press ideas
Not flowers between pages,
To satiate my own roots
On the Victorian history
Which permeates the very brickwork
Of this establishment.
A lone bee drones into view,
Pausing on the ample petals,
Leaving covered in pollen particulate.
He will probably pen a poem
Far greater than mine
With those flecks of history
Upon his back.
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