Steep highlands trail. A giant thistle,
proud head, and thorny, purple crown.
I bend to look at it: it bristles:
"Who is this stranger in my town!"
"Beg pardon, Majesty", I utter,
and step back gingerly, transfixed.
The foxgloves, still seized of the matter
seek to evict me from their midst.
A bumblebee descends to hover,
and guard the monarch with its life.
Wind in its back, the jealous lover,
is dancing to the whistling fife.
Two, three steps back, the sunset beckons,
a hint of rain is in the air.
Time ticks again; its precious seconds
remind me: I'm no longer there.
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