The petals are much narrower,
more splayed, and yet they look
as fresh as modern campion,

as clean.  The thirty-two millennia
that lie between the generation
and the germination of its seed

have seen the glaciers melt,
the wooly mammoths die.
Is it dismayed to wake uprooted

from prehistory, surrounded
by machines? Or does it celebrate
its resurrection with a shiver

of its leaves, a glowing
of its flower, a stirring
in its fruit?