The petals are much narrower,
more splayed, and yet they look
as fresh as modern campion,
as clean. The thirty-two millennia
that lie between the generation
and the germination of its seed
have seen the glaciers melt,
the wooly mammoths die.
Is it dismayed to wake uprooted
from prehistory, surrounded
by machines? Or does it celebrate
its resurrection with a shiver
of its leaves, a glowing
of its flower, a stirring
in its fruit?