E J Scovell (1907 - 1999)

　　I would if I could choose

　　Age and die outwards as a tulip does;

　　Not as this iris drawing in, in-coiling

　　Its complex strange taut inflorescence, willing

　　Itself a bud again - though all achieved is

　　No more than a clenched sadness,

　　The tears of gum not flowing.

　　I would choose the tulip's reckless way of going;

　　Whose petals answer light, altering by fractions

　　From closed to wide, from one through many perfections,

　　Till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall,

　　Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.