Love Administered by the Local Council
The little beauties disappear. We walk
Past those for season after season, year
On year. The world’s brownish evils stalk
Them, though. A pretty pinkish, purplish cheer
They give, the cyclamens that grow beside
Each other just behind that fence, that green
One trying to protect them. Blossoms glide
Along the grass until they reach between
The posts. They form a mauve-ish valentine.
Of course you think that you should take a snap
Or make a reverent, shady, vespers shrine
For worship. Suddenly it comes, the slap.
..The council workers come. They spray their spray.
….The beauties wither. Blooms go brownish gray.
~ Phillip Whidden