The week before it's gone, the elderflower
lights up the river air with dying scent
that seems to summon in the summer showers.
Then all the elder trees, their branches bent
beneath the weight of rainfall, seeming tired
give up their flowers like chocolate during Lent.
For weeks they've lit the hedgerows with pale fire,
but now the time has come for the dog rose
to snake down from the trees; or, climbing higher,
soar over lanes and gates. The verge draws close
as if it has a secret; all that life
crowds out the paths, the newly swelling sloes
jostle for space with foxglove and loosestrife
and bramble thorns that skewer like a knife.
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