Eight pots under my front window,
Not selected but a random collection,
Presents in tubs, seed floated flowering,
Remains of painstaking gardening,
And days of inspiration and sun;
And still in one a yellow wallflower,
Finding a home, colourful and bright,
Not waiting to dance but abundant self,
Bearing out the winter storms,
To give its beauty in return for chance,
Underneath my window sill.

Mary Kearns