Slain Hollyhock

In torn and tattered autumn frock,

There lingered one lone hollyhock,

Three wilted blooms on riven stalk.

About the yard it seemed to stare

While all the other flowres fair,

Looked scornfully from everywhere.

These other flowers bright and gay

Were in their festive fall array,

Dressed for the party, so to say.

I listened as there came to me,

Soft as the drone of honey bee,

A murmur of conspiracy.

A hateful wind had heard the call

And came across the garden wall

To plot the stately flower's fall.

Next morning when I made the round,

A waste of beauty there I found;

Slain hollyhock upon the ground.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)