He loved flowers.
Couldn’t walk down the street
Without glancing into every garden.
Roses always a favourite,
Whilst the joyful gaiety of the delphinium
Convinced him once again
The sky had a lot to do with it.
Scattering the flower with a handful
of bright blue pieces.
Tiny petals of freedom.
He loved most
The minty green perfection, leaf and stem
Of quiet carnation.
A delicate beauty wearing its best frilly dress
For a dance of stately, slow, seduction.
Whilst the wild and burning glory
Of the chrysanthemum,
Set his own heart blazing.
Once, he stopped in front of Henry’s garden,
The neglected patch of ground
Covered in tiny yellow dandelions,
Flowers which expected nothing
Turning a small dark square into a slice of sunshine.
Thinking of those long ago peace people
Thrusting flowers into barrels of guns,
He understood it was time to go,
The path to town unfurling in front of him.
©2021 Gwen Grant
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