Can never be described...
Only defined.
Too often is condemned
To live on the surface,
And in murky pools
In the eyes of the shallow.
Wishes, longs, aches,
Yearns to be understood,
To be traced
Through pinholes
From which it splays it leaves in a subject,
Traced down to it's stem
To it's roots
And then, somehow,
The shoots are apreciated.
Some are blind
To the delicate spieces
That sway beneath the tall grasses.
Others take time,
Others examine.
Others endeavour to notice
Every
Intricate
Stem.
It's always there -
Ever present
like wild flowers.
Those claiming a quick fix or
A tubed,
A packaged,
A potted beauty...
Lied -
Shied away from the truth
or never really realised it was there.
- As plucked flowers will whither,
Waste away...
In the water of the vase
and the wild ones will replenish,
regrow forever
to embroider the
indescribable beauty
of the many-coloured meadow.
