I reached to touch the foxglove--

On its stalk, red blossoms swell;

I didn't know the foxglove

Is called the dead man's bell.

Wicked fairies gave the fox

The blooms to pad his paws;

Many a witless bird lies dead

Who never knew the cause.

Sweet enticing foxglove,

So pretty at the start;

My cunning, silent fox-love,

Be still my beating heart.



Cynthia said…
Ah, be careful what you reach
for, wish for, especially those
rich, red bell, so enticing,
so addictive.
Cleanly written, in a sly tone.
Fireblossom said…
Me, sly? Mais non, c'est impossible! Hehehe.
Mama Zen said…
I really like this, Shay!
hedgewitch said…
This is going *way* back into the Fireblossom vaults. A very sing-songy cadence, with an almost nursery rhyme feel, yet the thoughts that the form covers are far from child-like. Dark, indeed, and nice play on the title flower in the last couplet.
Anonymous said…
So beautiful and deadly!
Mary Ann Potter said…
Just a tad hypnotic with that well-crafted rhythm and rhyme. Oh, so good!!!
Kay L. Davies said…
The last two lines sum it up perfectly. Very well done!
Margaret said…
I could almost read this to my children... but they would ball their eyes out! Very sing songy.
Kerry O'Connor said…
Nice one! I do love a foxglove: there is something about its name which evokes the ancients. You have captured the arcane associations so well - it reminds me of A Midsummer Night's Dream, with its mix of poison and passion. Thank you for sharing it on RT's Wednesday Challenge.
Anonymous said…
Fairy tales root down into the mandrake of the witch's chant, and this uses the sing-song meter of a poesy poem (penny dreadfuls of the 19th century) to reach out a wild dark clawed paw and clutch the heart. Yeah, sometimes love is a hunter that gets us square in its bloody sights. - Brendan

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