September 24, 2015

 

 

I watch my glady’s

hour by hour.

Every year they grow

but they never flower.

 

Their lanky leaves a mess;

a victim of the storm.

I wait impatiently

for just one flower to form

 

But as autumn nears

I fear they’re for the chop

Another barren season;

another flowerless crop.

 

Though out in the countryside,

with seemingly effortless toil,

they grow in vast abundance!

It must be the Cotswold soil?

 

In shades of red and white,

and purple, pink and blue,

they sit in buckets outside

the growers house, on view.

 

He must know what he’s doing,

but when I pass, I sigh,

as he also grows sunflowers

that nearly touch the sky.

 

 

 

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