A poetic response to Nettles, Cwmorthin by Christopher Meredith.
Highlighted memories
of their delicate petals
swaying side to side.
Plucked by budding fingers
worn by the wind,
dancing with the breeze.
Standing in the meadow I’d mutter a rhyme:
He loves me, He loves me not.
The outcome as precious as gold.
I loved the way I’d always win,
or how Izzy would argue the truth,
and find another flower,
untrue
but all these tales of magical flowers
white and pure
blooming in my head,
promised dreams of prince charming,
and true love’s kiss
Stumbling through my childhood
my fingers bloomed.
I sit in the field where I used to repeat
a childish rhyme:
He loves me, He loves me not,
highlighting memories of their delicate petals,
knowing they were lies.