Enchanter's Nightshade

I walk the central aisle of this green cathedral,
to find you shining with shy but serious intent
where beech pillars stand tall on either side,
bearing arched canopies to preserve the stillness
of this natural nave, this dark and shaded holy place.
You are Circe the enchantress, quiet dealer in potions,
the only flower remaining on this July morning,
for July is the darkest time in the beech wood.
But nightshade you are, by name and nature
if not by family: nightshade and enchantress.
Anemone, celandine and bluebell, the flowers of the day
have vanished with the Spring, and the long night is yours alone.
Your white roots spread in secret through the gloom from
where your spikes of tiny flowers rise from a ring of hearts;
and while I stand quiet within this holy place
I know I am in your thrall.