THERE once the walls Of the ruined cottage stood. The periwinkle crawls With flowers in its hair into the wood.
In flowerless hours Never will the bank fail, With everlasting flowers On fragments of blue plates, to tell the tale.
A ruined cottage disappears into the woods, and all that’s left are plants and a few shattered pieces of old blue plates. The speaker doesn’t mourn openly—there’s a quiet, almost tender acceptance here. Periwinkle vines creep over where walls used to be, their flowers tangled like bits of memory.
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