Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness.
The delicate bracts of Queen Anne’s Lace are one of my favourite summer flowers. They grow wild on the verges and in the meadows, but we have some cultivated varieties that we’ve grown from seed in the garden too.
Actually, I have a feeling that the poet is not really talking about flowers here, but that is so often the way with poetry.