Bluebells
by
Pat Mitchell
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Wild flowers, once picked, quickly fade,
cut off in the flow of their dreaming.
No matter our science, our scheming,
they’re dead bluebells we bring from the glade.
The tigers, once gone, are no more.
No magic of man can bring back
our brother, the golden and black,
that heartbeat, that heart-stopping roar.
The forests, our breath, are on fire;
we ravage the earth and the ocean
half-asleep. Without fear or emotion,
we fashion our funeral pyre.
What we’ve squandered can not be rebuilt,
no matter our science, our scheming.
The earth is cut off in her dreaming.
Wild flowers, once picked, quickly wilt.
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| Shortlisted
Entries shortlisted to final judging stage in the Last Line
poetry competition were from: Anne Allinson, Highcliffe, Christchurch,
Dorset; Carol Midwood, Wollaston, Stourbridge; Joyce Reed,
Marple, Stockport; Brigid Simpson, Aldeburgh, Suffolk; Hannah
Stephenson, Amsterdam, Holland.
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