WILD FLOWERS

Hidden in crevices,
Feathery edges, pale beige with white center,
Coarse, velvet touch, rare.
On grassy slopes bluebells bobbing on tall stems
Amongst elegant leaves,
No fragrance:
A delicate creation in pure mountain air
Yearned for, desired by me.

I’m shut in. Four walls.
Pollution – a dense blanket over the city.

Only through the mind
With great effort
The window opens
Towards the mountain.

12-11-1983

Ute Kaboolian