RAPE

As pretty as a poppy field,
And twice as high.
Undisturbed in surface yield,
And lemon bright.
Whose lofty blinding flower stems
Arouse the town
With all the warmth of spring’s new scent,
And its renown.
Brushing dust against your frame
When it is sprung,
Whilst fever sufferers complain
About their lungs,
But they are usually the folk
Who moan a lot,
And are the first to invoke
Afterthoughts.