There is something about an orange nasturtium.
Is it the colour, so piercingly deep and clean
and paint-box perfect?
Or maybe it’s the graceful arcs the stems describe,
like pale green, wrought iron standards.
It could be the plump little buds
with their cheeky wee spurs.
Or the open, honest leaves bouncing
merrily in the slightest breeze.
Perhaps it’s the peppery bite they add to my salad,
and yet the bugs don’t seem to relish them.
Even the seed head is perfectly turned out
in scrolled elegance, a lined matriarch
proudly bestowing her legacy upon the world.