the collector/ matthew hollis

Seek rarity as old men might seek time.
By which you meant such glimpses in the grasses:

a fledgling bittern, a Norfolk Hawker,
an earthstar last seen in the war;

and now a scarce fen orchid,
found on just three sites you will not name.

I've seen it, in the reed beds of the alder carr,
staked to keep it out from under foot,

You'd barely note its modesty:
its simple, yellow-greening flowers,

its humble leaves, unscented airs,
so well within the frame of ordinary.

But scarcity can lend a mind to madness,
to strain to keep in harness what runs out.

In these numb unnumbered mornings,
our tea-bags clouding in the cup,

what's common is suddenly so precious:
this sunburst through a pane of glass;

an arrow of geese
pointed somewhere sout;

the toddler in the street below
who looks so far to see just up ahead,

his eyeline tilted skyward,
reaching an ungloved hand for rain.

: matthew hollis, ‘the collector’; gevonden in the analog sea review #2