FLOWER FESTIVAL

Every summer, there are flower festivals all over the world.  Lots of
glorious roses and Sweet Peas and the one flower my Dad didn’t
like – the gladioli, those tall, statuesque flowers of lovely colours.  He
normally liked pretty much all flowers but I think the dislike for this
particular flower began when he was brought a bunch when he was ill in
hospital.  As he had to lie down all the time, they towered over him and
made him uneasy.  Winter now and all flowers are waiting in the wings
for the sun.   I’d buy my Dad a bunch of carnations if he was here.  I
saw green ones the other day but I think they were dyed and he wouldn’t care
for that.  He would love a bunch of picked-as-they come carnations though and
I would love to give them to him.

                                FLOWER FESTIVAL

The day we couldn’t smell the roses
It was almost cold,
And the flowers were standing around
In buckets,
Long green stems shining.  

Men and women were putting those roses
Into a Catherine wheel of colour,
And in a far corner
Where there was cool shadow,
Children were pinning rosebuds
Into a cushion.
Yet still we couldn’t smell them.

But as we stood there
Eating our marmite sandwiches,
Sunshine suddenly leapt through the tall windows,
Petals unfurled,
And as if someone had pressed a plunger
The whole room exploded
With warmth and scent and colour.

Then we could smell the roses.

                                                          ©2018 Gwen Grant