Cornflower

Beside an old becrumbled tower
Where a mage of old grew tired and died
And ageless winds made grumble on a broken bower
I chanced upon a bloom
Purple and bedewed
One cornflower
Gasping in the vine.
There, thorn and bracken pressed upon a stream
Which the mingling of their dead had turned to brine
Where wisdom gaped in echoes
And mortar dribbled on its mocking stair
Yet such a purple thing and pure
Lay uncorrupted there upon the wrack of years.
And so I bent, but not to pluck
Nor catch its scent
But hear that eldritch music long forgot
Arising as it disappears
Half lingering in the sod
Sing of some spirited place with purple brimming in the beds.
But there I found no sound nor trace but tears.