Comfrey. How many shades of blue have summer skies? As many as the comfrey by the river Whose drooping heads turn purple to the eye - And hang - like mist. There's even pink amongst The varied blooms - enough it seems to haunt The water's edge - like ghosts that learn their numbers From the bees. The air is warm. The jaunt Of our desire visits June - where sunlight Flits through shadows with the wren - undaunted In the glitter of its song. The thrush replies - A flood of notes that fathom every flower And saunter through the fragrance of the mind. The cuckoo seems uncertain of its taunt And summer - doesn't answer - only hums.