Aster

In the garden’s quiet corner, where dew clings to each leaf,
The aster stands, a modest star, its petals soft and brief.
Shades of lilac, blush of pink, a violet‑tinged hue,
They open slow beneath the sky that turns a gentle blue.

Bees drift lazily from bloom to bloom, their wings a muted hum,
Sipping nectar from the florets where the summer shadows come.
Each flower head a constellation, a tiny, earthbound light,
Guiding wanderers through the hedgerow till the fall of night.

When autumn’s breath begins to stir, and leaves turn copper‑brown,
The aster holds its colour bright, refusing to let down.
It whispers of endurance, of hope that does not fade,
A quiet promise in the soil, a bloom that won’t betray.

So let us linger where they grow, and taste the crisp, cool air,
Feel the pastoral hush of England, the fragrance lingering there.
In every aster’s modest grace, we find a simple truth—
Beauty needs no grander stage than this unassuming youth.