are wild heather

clinging

to boggy soil,

wringing out usable minerals

from forsaken ground,

specialised for the task,

gripping tightly,

unlikely to be pulled up by man,

or weather.

Craggy stems,

harsh curly head of hair-

still, she bears small green leaves

in spring- and in Autumn-

a magnificent purple blaze.

roots, heather, poem

Poetry

Last updated 141 days ago by artbyjune