Buttercup

We pluck the blossom from the lawn,

Gold doubloons from an emerald sward,

And in this labour I can see,

No great release and no reward.

This flush of colour bright and strong,

A weed set down in ordered space,

A lock upon the gate of heaven,

A jewel in a common place.

And yet this complex complete form,

Holds all the truth that I would be,

Not ordered, fettered line on line,

But roaming riot bold and free.

For down the meadow past the wall,

In wild profusion lost to measure,

In seed and blossom root and stem,

This golden hoard is nature’s treasure.

So as we stoop and bow again,

This contradiction to confound,

I honour now this yellow flower,

That glorifies the precious ground