Every day he gave me a flower.
Sometimes it was a bought arrangement.
Sometimes it was a wild flower.
Sometimes it was a picked flower.
Sometimes he gave me a dried poppy .
Neatly tukked into the pages of his favourite book.
Sometimes it was free.
Sometimes it was store-bought.
At times it was cheekishly taken from a public garden.
Or from behind the vile neighbours fence.
Sometimes it was drawn on paper.
Sometimes they were bound into a crown. .
Everyday he gave me a flower.
He gave them with love.
He gave them with passion.
Sometimes it was a dandilion.
Sometimes it was origami.
Sometimes it was a poem,
Or a book about a flower.
He gave me flower earrings.
A flower neclace.
He served me flowers floating in my tea.
He gave me flowers in the form of a bread.
Sometimes he cooked with edible flowers.
He gave me flowers every day.
He spread out flowers on our bed.
And now, it is I who is bringing him flowers.
I come to his grave
And bring a flower, or two .
And one day soon, I will be here too.
His last flowers grow here now.
The Seed We Did Not Sow
When we came back from our one week holiday in the South of France we were greeted by a surprise. Between our mint plants (we have tons of those don’t ask me why) there was a plant that we did not plant nor did we sow the seeds. A tomato plant had made its way out of the rich potting soil in our flower box. Tomatoes are easy to recognise, their distinctive smell gives them away. Continue reading “The Seed We Did Not Sow”