THORNS

I grew up amongst flowers lining paths,

climbing walls, filling vases…

They scented the sunsets and enlivened

rainy mornings with their hues.

My grandmother grew them in broken pots

or in beds that she weeded, hoed and watered.

I just helped her to cover the tender ones

in winter, when the frosts wouldn’t thaw,

but I cannot remember the colour

of the bunches we gave her when she died.

Our garden become duller and paler

and roses only seemed to issue thorns.

Thorns chasing my footsteps,

thorns bursting on the patio,

thorns inside the kitchen,

thorns brewing in the teapot,

thorns sewing up my clothes

The scent of honeysuckle never more

through the trellis and the two-tone geranium

broken, withered and dead.