Whilst walking in a meadow last weekend,
I found a flower of strange appearance.
Its stem delicate yet strong would not bend,
Growing in the middle of a clearance.
With misshapen leaves stripped in orange fur,
And prickly bells smiling up at the clouds.
I tried to pick it, impaled on a bur,
and was quite unaware of the mass crowds,
Big black cows watching me from a distance.
Curiouser they crept ever closer,
As fickle beasts I need no assistance,
In backing away no nonsense, no sir!
But alas the object of my desire,
Trampled and crushed a flower never more.
© Dawn Whitehand 2016
Prompt from www.napowrimo.net – a sonnet