The Lost Book. The Last Bloom.

There I was sitting in the garden reading D. H. Lawrence.
It was caused by some remarks one evening in the pub, you know how these pub conversations are.

“Yes, I’ll look it up in my volume of Lawrence poems, for I have such a thing, when I get home.”

I got home, I looked.
The book was nowhere to be found.
I looked again the next day – nothing.

It must have been pruned at the last “clear out” but I can’t imagine that I’d get rid of a book of Lawrence poems. I firmly believe that it must be here somewhere, but where?

It must have been pruned at the last “clear out”…
But I can’t imagine that I’d get rid of a book of Lawrence poems.

I circumnavigated that roundabout a few times.
I looked again; it wasn’t here.

By now I’d forgotten which poem we were talking about in the pub, I was more concerned that I no longer had a copy of “D.H. Lawrence – Selected Poems.”

I went to AbeBooks.co.uk to buy myself another copy, a snip at £2.39 delivered to my door. How on earth do these people make any money? I guess they just sell A LOT of books.

And there I was sitting in the garden reading D. H. Lawrence.
I paused between poems and looked across at the camellia bush, now devoid of blooms.
I looked at a wall of green leaves.
Almost.

There was but one bloom left on the camellia bush,
Hidden in the greenery head bowed and trying to look inconspicuous,
Hiding,
Resplendent in carmine,
But trying not to be noticed.

Yet once my eye was drawn,
It was there, unmistakable.

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