E J Scovell (1907 - 1999)

I would if I could choose

Age and die outwards as a tulip does;

Not as this iris drawing in, in-coiling

Its complex strange taut inflorescence, willing

Itself a bud again - though all achieved is

No more than a clenched sadness,

The tears of gum not flowing.

I would choose the tulip’s reckless way of going;

Whose petals answer light, altering by fractions

From closed to wide, from one through many perfections,

Till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall,

Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.