Tulip

The Tulip in a London Patisserie

In the quiet corner of a London garden,
I spotted a single tulip, green‑leafed and bright—
A splash of crimson against the dull brown of peat,
A little flag waving in the morning light.

Its petals unfurl like an old‑fashioned scroll,
Soft as a lover’s whisper, crisp as a winter’s breeze.
The colour, bold and unpretending, threatens every hue,
A monument to hope in a world that never stops and never slows.

You could stand beside it and say it’s simply a flower,
Yet in that modest bloom there’s a whole history of Dutch traders, of bankers in rags, A story whispered through the centuries in the East End of the Thames.

The tulip, a prized toy in a jeweller’s case,
And yet it grows here on the rough part of the brick terrace;
Marks of a summer spent planting seeds of ambition,
Its tiny stem set to rise in defiance of fate.

I crouch close, and see a vein like a glimmering thread,
An echo of a forgotten sugar‑plated memory.
When the wind sighs across the glass‑capped park, The tulip sways as if to echo a lullaby at the edges of a tea‑time dream.

No, tulip is more than a pretty green‑leafed delight,
It is an ally for the dreamer, a nod, a flash of determination,

the bouquet, the bouquet of that day when you’re under an old oak and have the feeling you’re,
In that quiet hush, the tulip smiles, Greek‑style, a gesture of hope, bold and bright.