Winding Its Way Back Poem by Mark Heathcote

In my heart, I have a flower.
It's scented. Have you not seen it?
Have you not yet—found that bower?
Not pricked one forefinger on it.

It lies beside a stream, winding
it's way back to a garden,
said one time-to-be called Eden
Love, I'm not just eulogising.

Find that bower, follow its scent
right to the flower's heart, still rent
-on loving you, it's a serpent
that's fanged but lovingly verdant.

Bitten you're emitted, a death
so, enigmatic the world pales
and like a honeybee beneath
sepals, amassing nectar bales.

You shall find the first flower borne-
somewhere withstood the gaze of love
you might think this flower-lowborn
-found, but there's nothing sweeter above.