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Mixed Borders

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Hellebore<br />

What skirts of watered silk, wild-green and rose,<br />

shimmer within the forest of your leaves,<br />

shy of the light, guarding their colour close,<br />

striving to be distinct, to be believed?<br />

A head so heavy on a stem so slight.<br />

Bruised colour, shades prefigured by the night.<br />

Why do you conjure flowers of despair,<br />

turned from the sun, desperate to hide?<br />

Why do your petals, drawn towards the air,<br />

close when they sense the stricken heart inside?<br />

If you had words, if simple words could frame<br />

feeling, distilled, yours Hellebore, is ‘shame’.<br />

Lift your head up. Look at the sudden sky.<br />

Colour as dancer: these are the Northern Lights.<br />

This is your palette, hanging but hanging high.<br />

The dome of the world is on fire, achingly bright.<br />

Think of this sky. Think of how darkness glows.<br />

Take it, that longed-for pride, Lenten Rose.<br />

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