They strike my eye anew; tall, purple foxgloves
fired up when the June day's sinking. Dark as Dis
those bold intruders, with a bearing that gives
my mundane heart a lightning bolt. Such as this
that fuses glad to sad, shadowing old loves
with more sweet decaying thoughts. I'll never miss
these flowers though, for some sly seeds will soon lay
claim. Build spire on spire as heavenly display
but when summer cloudbursts drench the trumpet line
they'll switch to gentian and cannily incline
each mouthpiece, till the bees pass by with sunshine
For my MTB prompt Legs Eleven we write an 11 line poem from either of these poetry styles: The Hendecastich, or as with this poem, The Eleventh Power with its 11 syllables, a rhyme scheme abababccddd and an uplift to the theme
PoetryPix 