Diane Hine (25 July 1956)
A four-leaf clover could be growing in a field.
I’d never stoop to pluck in case delusion was revealed.
I’d daisy-chain caprice or blend a whimsy potpourri,
imagining it grew that way for me.
A fresh love poem could be flashing through the sea.
I’d not use line or net because it’s perfect swimming free,
but I could chase red herring through translucent truthful blue,
pretending it was made for me by you.
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