A bunch of flowers on a wooden desk
Leaves poised like paddles
Ready to spin and swim
Green fins awaiting.
Buds stretched like lips for a kiss
Frozen in their opening moment
Is it now? Are we there yet?
Journeys in cars to faraway places
Children excited, faces pressed to glass
Fields of yellow swaying as if to say: yes, yes!
Sun streaming, hot tar winding.
The darkest purple petals you’ve ever seen
A garden planted by a hopeful heart
Shades of lilac, cornflower and rounded plumes
Now neglected in the hands of inexperienced others.
A field of poppies on a spring day at Kew
One in particular standing tall
An eerie testament to ghastly times
Fragile in the breeze, watched by a silent crowd
Flowers and their gracious arcs
Extravagant offerings, luxuriant or wild gathered
Our accomplices in new love and old
In grief and in remembrance
Dying silently for our causes.
A wild daisy plucked and pressed
Carried home from an orange mountain –
Picked, in spite of it all, with hope –
Lies still under the finest layer of dust.