The Last Bandalup Buttercup

Abandoned on its leaf-spiked branch, the last to be crucified bows in greeting.  

Four petals erupt from a barely-beating heart; it’s learnt how life is fleeting.  

The thorn-crowned messiah, like a lucky four-leaf clover, luck long ago run out. 

It sees the future as its patient incorruption gives way to brewing doubt.  

The last Bandalup Buttercup watches, unsure if it’s warning or foresight.  

Helplessly, it spots a friendless flower dying in a world deprived of light.  

One last petal of four is left, teetering in this apocalyptic dream.  

A single gust of wind fells this last straggler and the flower doesn’t scream. 

They say if a flower falls in a forest alone, it doesn’t make a sound 

And this fantasy flower remains silent, for there is nobody around.  

The real flower stirs from the nightmare, wondering if it’s, perhaps, prophetic.  

Novel eyes take in its small golden frame, lone on a murky branch - pathetic.  

Its world frigid, fate rigid; swaying in the savage wind, it waits for the sun, 

Bends and begs with the breeze, no rescuers arriving, short life nearly done. 

Hibbertia abyssus falls into its abyss; succumbs to choking black.  

Thus, Critically Endangered meets Extinct; it’s too late for the help it lacks.  

The fragile flower flutters as the wind thrums and mutters.  “This is where I die.”  

Long-lost. Soon forgotten.  The earth beneath it shudders, “So long, goodbye.” 

Will its dream come true for others?  Only time will tell, as petals swell and fall 

And the Bandalup buttercup dies, last one of all.