Elderflowers

We pick them at dusk
when the night bends down
  
to trace their little pads
with dew. Every petal
  
the pointed face of yet another
split in the stem.
  
Mormor bids us drown
the bundled dots for
  
three nights in a broth
of muddled lemons
  
and fleshy berries
until the pot brims
  
with liquid bloom.
The florets are a
  
foam of pearls. Strained,
they lie limp, swathed
  
in a muslin cloth,
pale and warm.
  
I boil some water.
The bloodlet nectar
  
purls as steam winds
around the falling stream.
  
Strands of undissolved liquor
skate across the surface
  
like the weft of a dream.

Olof Samuelsson is a poet based in Lund, Sweden. His work has appeared in Northwords Now and Lotus Eater Magazine.