Magnolia

In the hushed garden of Kew

A stately magnolia stands,
its bark a rough, variegated vein,
flower buds swelling like dawn’s first blush—
a whisper of summer in earnest brine.

The leaves, pale as spun‑silk chiffon,
twirl in the gentle Thames‑west breeze;
each petal a quiet, drifting waltz,
faint perfume tasting of nearby seas.

In winter’s silence the trunk holds its secrets,
but in the early June it flings its bounty:
a cloud of cream, a breath of admonish,
clad in ink‑black stamen like midnight’s diary.

The canopy sighs, the light filters oblique,
painting dapples on moss‑soft floor;
a robin’s wing swifts past, a choir of hums—
a living tableau, longing for more.

Sweat‑kissed paths that lead the curious,
to admire the whiteness in full bloom;
the magnolia crouches, vast, proud, serene—
a gentle elegy in the heart of June.

And when autumn drapes its amber shawl,
the blossoms fall, a feathered rain;
yet the tree, resilient, stands forever—
a portrait of quiet, unwavering refrain.