Jane Dards : Buttercup
How often do we tread and take no heed
of this resented plant we call a weed?
We mow them from our lawns to keep them green,
unsullied by the speckling yellow gleam.
We dig them from our flowerbeds and curse
the strong white roots that bind them to the earth.
But would we feel the same if they were rare?
If delicate, we’d nurture them with care.
We’d cherish every shining cup of gold
and watch each neatly-packaged bud unfold,
admire the shape of sweet divided leaves.
If they were frail, we would consider these
deserving of our praise, our soft caress.
But how we British vilify success.