The Blue Flower
Midst Newark’s bustling plain,
waiting on my humming perch
inside a hazy porthole,
I saw a blue flower grow
-on the edge, alone, a miracle,
resistant, potent, and defiant
as the eye of Joan of Arc.
I pictured a searching bumble bee
stumbling on this lonely prize
miraged among the gassy vapours;
his wobbling softened stripes
a welcome colour on this concrete cap
tight on old nectar’s hunting ground.
A new breed of cranky bees
with stiff slick wings
infest this unyielding lot
of glaring glass
and impenetrable crust
-another grey apron for Mother Earth.
I was proud of the bumble bee
bag packed
beating a true path home to his nest
dodging the hot and heartless sting
of these gatherers and scatterers,
toting to other hives
where rebellious blue flowers grow.
Finbar Wright – x.x.mmvi