Poem for 17th April
Each of the flowers in the bouquet the woman
from Interflora brought into the garden by the side-gate
had already seen too much of the world: lemon
daisies as pretend pale suns dominated
mauve freesias, and tiny frilled pinks like shells
bobbing in seaweed trees. The lilies
were the most knowing, hidden in slim scrolls,
releasing scent. Stamens, spills
of saffron dust, but the cellophane
matters. Synthetic paint pinks. My mum
sent those flowers, ‘to cheer you up’: the main
thing, how hot or cool it gets, April. Sum
of the texts, I think. Move on. She loves you.
There are facts like that. Old as she is, as are you.