There’s a dying flower in the middle of a field and you don’t care.

It’s bending lower, slowly each moment.

Days pass and each photo click of time which chinks by you care less and less.

Drooping petals and soft stalk as the sun comes and goes.

She was magnificent, stong, funny and proud.

The potential was there to be on the pound, on a badge or insignia.

Cherished forever in memory.

Born from the ground, bred to guide the way to the stars.

You don’t care.

What’s worse than her dying breed?

Her extrinction at your hands?

Is the worst of truth.

It’s your field.

©G.P Williamson 2017


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