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.




So sorry you lost her. Some people do seem to take the flowers with them...Beautiful poem. Like a song.