Where the treeless hill protects a valley;
against north westerly winds,
in a glade near a lake; bland,
but rare orchids grow-
bland in the sense that man hasn’t yet discovered them.
It’s in the same glade
where golden butterflies weave a carpet so strong
that on it you can fly across the lake
while hoping that one of them doesn’t changes it mind
and want to fly another way;
in that case you will fall into the lake,
be pushed ashore by a bulbous dolphin
which long time ago was dropped there too
by a gigantic twister which picked it up from the Pacific Ocean
and flung it into the lake when its rage was spent.
Ashore the valley’s animals will gasp and say:
‘What a clumsy creature is this.’
Laugh but keep their distance except for some scraggy dogs,
which never got the hang of living off the land.
They used to live in a forest
till they were chased away by their cousin wolf,
which got tired of their inanity.
You will lead them and feed them,
as dogs’ best friend it’s your destiny.
Having discovered the rare orchid
and be stunned by its beauty you’ll tell your friend, the botanist,
who will come, give it his middle name,
take coloured photos and included them in an academic book and be immortalised.
This and more make no difference to bees
who prefer the nectar of dandelions,
those hardy plants which grow up to the hillside’s top
where coarse, tough turf protect rocks from
being grounded into sand by the northwesterly.
In time families with picnic baskets will come
lift the valley clean of orchids
and others will have to buy that academic book
if they want to see want beauty looked like before it was classified.