THE FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

Found in a field complete with white flowers,
A single field, one of twenty-six,
A field of radiating brilliance,
Of cows, grass, and clovers,
And yet, only one of four leaves,
Giving off a beacon of luck,
My rock in a storm,
The light at the end of the tunnel,
Once green and lush,
Moving ever so gently,
Swaying ever so vividly,
Now aged, fragile and tarnished,
Its splendour confined to a life behind glass,
Like wine in a cellar,
A rarity, gaining value forever,
Its idiosyncratic nature is never lacking desirability,
A keepsake for the unpredictable, conflicting future.
An object worthy of infinite sentimental value,
My diamond in the rough,
My clover of four leaves.