White Foxglove Poem by Roger elkin

I
Lulled by stream’s crystal divinity
of seepage beneath the moor’s rim,
I drank myself blind on water
and the sounds of water, the chirrings

till suddenly woke
to your six-foot-or-more perpendicular
flower-arrangement that you’ve made
from yourself and the full bowl of your foliage
for earth’s altar.

II

Ascensions of green seed-packets -
each a chalice to propitiation -
grace the place that makes your calendar of growth
as you’ve hauled yourself together
above the tall grass, the leaf-mould

and, higher still, tiered choirs of bells
each peal a miniature of the row before
and lightened by a brighter green –
image of what remains in flower
or deigns to bloom:
living yuletide decoration
honouring the wrong solstice.

III

Looking again, I drink in the whole of you
with twinned side-shoot replicas –
deeped, angled at your foot - your own scale models
like an old master martyrdom
with central gibbet framed between lesser deaths.

IV

Pulled from only looking
I touch your pouting lips,
run finger-tip between
silvered filaments refracted to diamond
and unlock your womanhood,

your o-ness leading to womb reach,
the green blotches beneath creamy-white ceiling
that blushes to progeny,
your stigma-clitoris brushed
between the wild bee’s kneading:

Albino daughter of Albion -
girl of this earth rising to die.