A Bunch Too Late...

No delicate velvety frills
Sequined by the morning dew
Gowned her in spiral spills,
And untraced was her retinue.

Then, there was a long scan,
The eye spying over the summer,
Before the glow did go wan,
Stood up by an elusive newcomer.

She then rushed - sober, sedate,

Stifled in a veil as she bunched;
The cold set in – she was late
– the eye shut, the bud scrunched.