Anemones

In the wave and whirl, Ruffled petals sway,
Drained of dew, They sprawl from the earth
Over wine-blown gardens, Where throngs quaint and flock away, In a pulse of green blooming flies.

At the base of low stones, Engorged with earth and shells, As I sit, completely shrouded, My fingers feel them cold,
With little bits held beneath, Like souls adorned, Transported in cushioned breath, Drained from the heart of bloom.

• T E Hulme