White Flowers

There are flowers of white
Which grow in the night;
With thunder of thorn and vine—
If only a bloom could be mine!

But not the riches of Heaven,
Nor treasures in the sea
Could ever be given
To one such as me.

There are white flowers,
Silent waters—springtide showers
As the lovers who dream of them
In the grasses above them—
As they kiss the foaming wave,
Silent as he who could love them
Within the grave.

And not the riches of the sky,
Nor treasures in the brine
Could hope to be bought by
This broken heart of mine.

There are white flowers growing still,
Summer breezes—winter chill.
Blooming where the dead now lie.
Silent flowers growing by
Light of the moon on the tide,
Where no blossom ever died.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle