Library

Iris
by Michael Strange

White Iris, how pure, how lovely,
Like a virgin
In her starched lawn fete dress
Iris, pallid blue, gold veined,
And as if coloured from dawn chills,
Or from the yellow-fingered touching
Of curious starlight
Purple Iris,
Streaked with amethystine memories of the night,
Health-glossed and firm are those ripe wings
Of Oriental butterflies
So in my garden
Undulating ranks of Iris,
Slimly holding their broad flat blooms
(Like tripods of incense)
Aloft towards the moist spearing
Of morning sunlight.