Rude as dandelion seeds, yet you still grow, The dock leaf to my thistle counterpart. For years I reaped, could not un-sow, The perennial of my fallow heart. The bloom of time won’t stop me Crying your name (in Latin) to the others. But if bulbs don’t thrive, then let them be. Remember, we’re not botanists, not lovers. Yet they won’t breathe your pollen in the light, Don’t recognise the springtime look of you. Can’t feel the loss of you and fight Their itchy eyes, like I do. I’m hay fevered by the thought of you.
Rebecca Bailey writes award-winning short stories, dabbles in poetry and is currently digging her way out of a novel. When she’s not buried alive in historical fantasy, she enjoys walking through wild garlic at Beltane. She lives somewhere in England. If you’re very quiet, you can hear her gently shouting at moths when they eat her clothes. If you’d like to gently shout back, follow her on Twitter @rjanebailey.