Who named it that, I wonder?
Which person first smiled secretly
when they thought of it
and laid down their beloved
in a soft, sunlit patch of golden flowers,
telling them that they deserved
a place to rest which was more beautiful,
more serene, more airy
than that of the richest of the gentry,
being free, wild and alive.
All I know is that each July
I watch a particular patch of it
as it appears out of nowhere
and shoots for the sky
among the dull grass
at the side of the cliff top path,
greeting it as a familiar friend.