strict where it can grow
many species are poison
the hellebore flowers

There are flowers blooming
bright and brilliant, true
pooling from the vesicles
red and violet blue

Roots ensnare the veins below
a pale and powder skin
the blush of nascent nature’s worth
where bruises might of been

A pulling scrapes the tears from eyes
pink with blossom’s bud
And lips stained dark with dreams long dashed
reek of the color blood

There’re flowers in you, child
but flesh and blood as well
tend your garden carefully
or thorns grow where you dwell

To thrive in your company 
away from everyday cares.
As your words sway the splendour
of wanting to feel home together
I'd picture you as a Emperor dragonfly
and I a Hellebore Red Lady
and in the in betweenness we'd win each over,
you would be the free flight
I the settled  contemplation
the still thrift of spring.

If dreams be brief and solemn-sweet
content is in my making.
If dreams be drawn and rip’ed rife
more mood is for the taking.
I’s fine for week till suddenly
dreams crash upon my brow.
Awakening in my running heart
that life is just a sound.
or the nobody I’ve found.
Or all I fail to do.
Or who I want and cannot have.
In a gentle way, I shake my world
inside me when nothing’s really ******-up
Conflict is in my default settings
so I revert once the battery’s
used up.

We are the ones,
cast from the warmth and into the cold
where lungs break down
and hearts are left for the wolves.

We bloom in the chill now.
Like a hellebore bursts
from the banks of snow.
We have arrived
where the exiled
were bound to go -
we've packed The Tinguit Inn
and there's no vacancy.

And yes, oh yes,
we remember you,
tugging at our bound wrists.
We can see your eyes- -
your damnable dark eyes,
twist the chains around our necks.

Gendarme, what say you?
Where are your comrades now?
Where are the revolvers
you issued them as you said

"Just in case of an uprising..."

You know, son,
we have a history of
slitting the throats of our cousins
over a handful of stolen grain.

Imagine what we do to a thief
who robbed us from the sails
of our Mediterranean Sea.

Look at the sky!
The plateau and,
beyond,
our land that stretches to
the shorelines!

We are the exiled
from the Tinguit Hotel,
and yes - you will pay.

*Tu paieras.

FLOWERS OF SNOW (Christmas roses)
Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2012.

Flowers of snow,
they blow about the sky like birds in flight,
a sight that sends the senses in a spin,
for deep within our hearts
we love this dance,
this ballet-dance of nature,
as all is frozen, stilled,
and movement only comes
when winter wishes are fulfilled.

We wish, and wish, and wish again
for lightness in the dark,
for moments by the burning grate,
warm sparks of orange bright,
the contrasts of the darkest nights,
with stars of ice, that ******
****** bells on forest trees
of rainbow colours, fired.

For presents below a fir,
the reds and blues with ribbons silver, gold,
as Christmas comes and goes,
the hellebore, its ****** bloom
is plucked from frozen earth,
and brought right in
to Lord the full decked table,
celebrate Messiah's birth.

Amnesia.
I want to drink tonight,
purple hellebore.

Like to protest―
the display of private things.
The humming.

The alphabet of
betrayal. Who wants
the award?

Amnesia.
I dream of dying,
feeding the doves.

Was it too early
to start getting dressed up
without a show?

Amnesia.
The hyphens don't
connect now the broken strings.

Must winter always come so soon?
Her cloak cover the days?
My heart yearns for the blossom's bloom
For springtime's rallying ways

Alas, time flies relentlessly
Eludes as I explore
While my reluct stirs endlessly
I'll seek some Hellebore

Old Herne aromping in the wilds
Perchance exceeds his bound
And in a garden verdant
His hoof'ed feet were found

The careful rows of hellebore
The finely tilled red earth
The bursting bulbs of amaryllis
Enjoying their rebirth

All seemed queer to Herne the Hart
With moss and ivy twined
His ancient heart and wild blue eyes
No sense in this can find

And I realise now
There's no place for this wildness of mine
In your cultivated calm