The Lady Of The Flowers Poem by Andrew Rainford

Upon a time at morning’s dew,
There stood a figure tall and true,
Among the grass and buttercups,
In scarlet, red as the wine she sups.


Her face as fair as laughing child,
Skin pale as snow in winter mild,
Her auburn hair a long cascade,
Feet set to dancing through the glade.


Has ever one lived who heartfelt knew,
Such an image of beauty pure and true,
To each and all a shining light,
With lips flush full and eyes so bright.


And in that meadow come what may,
She dances freely everyday,
To make the flowers that grow there bloom,
Awakened by her sweet perfume.


Their colours set the field ablaze,
By light and warmth of the Sun’s rays,
Of violet and red and yellow and blue,
They yearn for her and act with woo.


She is mother, crone and maid,
To all that grow with leaves displayed,
Fair Eden for I name her thus,
My life I’d give her without fuss.


And when day is done with Sun abed,
She yet wears daisies on her head,
And dances awhile beneath the moon,
But for me at least is gone too soon.