Jesaiah

A wreath of clover rises
Where her biro carves
It's path o'er barren fields
Of winter's whitest fibre

Freshly pressed and printed
Empty lines await words
Of wisdom to flood from
Her still juvenile heart

Swirling goes the stream
Upon which she strings
A clovercrucian 'round her faith

In l'Elysée empathique
Promised by the prophet
Made of monstranced clovers