Blessed are the meek which hope alone sustains,
Content to grace life’s stage a beggar’s hour,
Who’s measured time marks little progress gained
Save that which spills forth from the marriage bower.
Rough heather on the meads, that mauvish blight
Fair spreads across the heath and yet beyond,
As if a flower and weed did so unite
To form a purple plight of beauty thrawn.
Long after daffodils have met their doom,
The foxgloves and the bluebells fade to green
And large the sweets that hail from nature’s womb,
Have lost their promise and since fled the scene;
Here yet the humble heather lives and breathes,
Though mighty tread and bouquet seekers grieve.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.