Anemones are so understatedly beautiful until they flower, then the deep glowing colours shine. There’s a strip of waste land alongside a house we pass when we go into town which someone has adopted. The gardener has planted iris, primrose, violas, poppies, daffodils and lots of other flowers and, always amongst them, the anemone. At the moment, these are a rich burning red and a deep azure blue.
ANEMONES
Another scratchy night,
With the moon hiding and clouds
Covering the stars.
Bitter thoughts bringing bitter tears,
With memory offering no comfort
Or consolation.
Maybe there is a loving hand
To hold your hand,
And maybe not.
Maybe you will remember
Those who once loved you,
And maybe you will forget
How loved you once were.
But when memory fails,
When peace slides out of reach
And touch is never going to be the same again,
You will find strength
In the love that shows itself
In the tenderness of anemones,
Bunched in a small bowl,
Standing on the dark windowsill.
© GWEN GRANT
Poems by Gwen Grant 