My magnolia love, my
exhibitionist;
lush, extravagant,
uncompromising -
you dominate the garden
with your
showy tricks.
In a heavy-hanging,
sweet cloud,
part musk, part citrus,
all luxury
you stand, still and serene,
your creamy skin so
artfully touched
with a painted
perfect blush.
You hold yourself
like a goddess,
strong and erect
accepting
wonder and adulation
as your due.
Yet it only takes
a single storm,
a touch of wind and rain
to leave you
naked, vulnerable and
shivering; destroyed
by the smallest
harshness.
You are the critics’
plaything, the weather’s
toy.
A Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball entry