Wild Flowers

While wandering lonely as a cloud and all that, I noticed an outbreak of one my favourite wild flowers fighting for existence along the edge of the footpath. This flower, which I believe may be part of the geranium family, is called Herb Robert. It will have a Latin name as well, no doubt, but I don’t need to know that.

[I believe these pictures were taken by AnRo0002]

I have a weakness for wild flowers which tend to the delicate, and that can cause problems. For example, I have two lawns (sorry, Gerard) and a grass verge, all of which host colonies of that delightful flower, Veronica. So when I come to mow the grass I spend much time and effort guiding the mower around them and the job takes much longer than it otherwise would. In doing this I am reminded of Robert Frost’s poem, The Tuft of Flowers. (The content of this poem is interesting but the expression somewhat clunky.)

And every year, I rejoice in the reappearance of ivy-leaved toadflax along a certain wall – unlike the criminal who attacks them with weed killer. Why does he do that? What harm is it doing him? Ivy-leaved toadflax takes root in crevices in walls and somehow thrives on practically no soil at all, so its life is hard enough without human intervention.

I am beginning to wonder what chance these plants have in an environment dominated by people.

Frost’s poem is in couplets, as it is in my draft, but when I publish this post the couplets disappear. I have no idea why.

The Tuft of Flowers

BY ROBERT FROST

I went to turn the grass once after one

Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen

Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;

I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,

And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

As all must be,’ I said within my heart,

Whether they work together or apart.’

But as I said it, swift there passed me by

On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night

Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,

As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,

And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,

And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look

At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared

Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,

Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,

By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.

But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,

Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,

And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;

So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,

Whether they work together or apart.’