Beside an old becrumbled tower,
where a mage of old grew tired and died,
and ageless winds made grumble
on a broken bower,
I chanced upon a bloom,
purple and bedewed,
one cornflower
gasping in the vine.
There,
thorn and bracken
pressed upon a stream,
which the mingling of their dead
had turned to brine,
where wisdom gaped in echoes
and mortar dribbled on its mocking stair,
yet, such a purple thing and pure
lay uncorrupted there
upon the rack of years.
And so I bent,
but not to pluck,
nor catch its scent,
but hear that eldritch music long forgot,
half-lingering in the sod,
sing of some spirited place
with purple brimming in the beds,
but there I found no sound nor trace,
but tears.