In A Seaside Garden
Hot afternoon. For once, no salted breeze.
The purple gladioli suck in bees,
Red-tailed, wasp-stripey, furry golden-brown.
Rust-edged, white blossom remnants drop straight down.
Among the distant yellow stars, cinquefoils,
Where something struggles in a spider’s toils
Small filmy pale-blue petals catch the eye,
Then rise, and zig-zag round, turned butterfly.
Jerome Betts
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, Jerome Betts
would like to hear them.
