In Competition No. 3315, you were invited to invent a legend that explains the origin and nature of a flower other than a sunflower or narcissus, whose well-known origin story tells of Narcissus, the beautiful youth who draws the vengeance of the gods, falls in love with his own reflection in the waters of a spring and, in Ovid’s version, wastes away, the flower that bears his name springing up where he died.

The winners below take £25.

‘I will come to you,’ said the young man, ‘under cover of darkness. Wait by the sea-cliff’s rocky edge, where I will surprise you.’

‘But come to me in folds of silk, a tapestry on your tongue,’ said the nymph. ‘For your beautiful robes catch everyone’s eye. I am half in love with the way they cling.’

‘No, dear lady,’ replied the youth. ‘Though pretty in pink, I need wear no finery in the dark. I do not care for ostentation. I shall be yours as a plain fellow, or never yours at all.’

‘When we are married,’ she cried that evening, hunting shadows, ‘you shall wear cloth of gold.’

‘No need, go to no expense on my account,’ said his voice. She started; sensed him falling backwards; heard his body breaking on the rocks. And ever after, a pink flower grew where he fell, and its name was Thrift.

Bill Greenwell

In the forests of Phrygia on the slopes of the sacred mountain lived a beautiful dryad who was noted for the colourful clothes she wore at special festivals. Her name was Poinsettia, and she attracted the attention of Zeus. Zeus’s wife, Hera, noticed this relationship but she was equally captivated by the dryad’s scarlet garments, and suggested that she should come and live with her. Poinsettia was an innocent, trusting young dryad, so she moved into Hera’s palace, where people admired her colourful dress for a while. However, during the festival period Hera herself went out to so many parties that she forgot Poinsettia, who was given no food or drink, and perished. This is why to this day the flower bearing her name is traditionally taken into homes during the festive season, but then placed in a room where people forget to water it, so that it invariably dies.

Brian Murdoch

The goddess Itys, mother of the seven sons of Soddit, ordered their lives and those of their progeny with a combination of received wisdom and retrospective smugness. She was the embodiment of an acronym – I Told You So.

Eventually, her descendants grew tired of her interventions and conspired to kill her, but her snorts of derision doomed all their attempts to failure. They tried poisoning her, smothering her, even hacking her to pieces with the Dagger of Retribution, forged in the Orient and smuggled thither by Hermes, but she survived unscathed.

Finally they trapped her between the Millstones of Last Resort and set them in motion, thereby reducing the ancient matriarch to a fine powder, which they scattered throughout the land. But she remained immortal. Wherever her dust landed she rose again, defiant and indestructible – since when the green shoots of her recovery have been known as ‘ground elder’.

Ann Drysdale

After years of war, the Giants and the Deities met at a great banquet to make peace. Their spears became spits on which to roast the savoury feast. All was well until Arom, a young Giant eager to show his strength, lifted a spit and slid a side of meat onto the table of the Deities, splashing them painfully with hot juices. They howled and leapt to their feet, overturning the heavy table. In the confusion, Arom stumbled back and fell, pinned to the ground, impaled on his own spear. The High Deity clasped the hand of the First Giant, proclaiming, ‘He died a martyr for peace. His corpse shall become the world’s mightiest flower, its tall central column wrapped at the base in an enormous leaf like a bloodstained cloak, its perfume the scent of dead flesh to draw the swarms of flies who will help the flower propagate.’

Chris O’Carroll

When Unia, demi-goddess of good times, consorted with Avanother, god of pubs, she became horribly hungover on new wine. Therefore, she begged her lover to cast a spell that would ensure she suffer no unpleasant after-effects, while still enjoying his company. ‘Choose a spell that enhances my natural charms,’ she cooed, winking suggestively. ‘I want to be delicate, but not too high maintenance. Remember, I am superb when bedded. I am lush, and thrive on liquids. I am a prettily fragrant beauty who blooms prolifically in summer, to brighten everyone’s day. I always mix well with others, and enjoy making a statement, so I should be eye-catching; colourful, dramatic, vivid. I want to run vigorously rampant, darling, and welcome all your friends.’

And that was how the god turned her into a petunia, placing her in colourful baskets, so the goddess could always hang around pubs, being well potted.

Janine Beacham

Now when Io, as a beautiful white heifer, was cropping the sparse turf on Mt Ida, she was pursued by a bee which she swished at angrily, striking it to earth. The dying bee addressed her thus: ‘Sister, I meant you no harm; I wished only to be your companion. I was once the maiden Melissa, and I too was ravaged by Zeus, until Hera took pity and changed me into the form you now see. Now I must make honey, as your kind give milk.’

At once a wonderful flower sprang up, remarkably resembling a bee in every aspect. This likeness attracted bees in their thousands, who, in collecting nectar for their own purposes, spread the pollen far and wide until hundreds of flowers carpeted the slopes. And that is why to this day, where noble cattle crop the grass on rugged uplands, you will find the Bee Orchid.

David Shields

No. 3318: Pen portrait

You are invited to provide a verse portrait of Seamus Heaney by any other poet, living or dead (please specify). Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 20 September.