Monday, June 09, 2008

Birth of a Poppy

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there:
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth, red like a lion's, it drank
The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,
And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine
When the Eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,
And hot as a swinked gipsy is,
And drowsed in sleepy savageries,
With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

Francis Thompson

1 comments:

storyteller said...

What a beautiful collage capturing this poppy’s evolution … and the poem is just lovely too. Thanks for sharing. (Of course, I’ll be watching Wimbledon …though I’ll be distracted by my new laptop when it finally arrives!)
Hugs and blessings,