NICOLA EVANS 13C
Dust has collected on the rim of Mum’s cracked, porcelain jug.
It’s where he’s arranged the daffodils
Once garden-fresh and gleaming
With the same butter hue as the faded postcard of Provence
Sunflowers hanging crucified on the cork board –
An abundance of golden petals frozen mid-flutter.
On the windowsill, diffuser reeds protrude like those sunflower stalks –
The gentle aroma of sun-quenched lavender sinks into the kitchen walls.
It masks the stench of three week old daffodils
Festering in the shade of closed curtains. Lopsided
Stems hang limp, starved of breath –
He cannot bring himself to throw it all away.
Instead, he clasps a corroded grafting knife and cuts
One transparent cutting from its withered, emerald body.
Sap stained hands will bury delicate epidermis
In a plastic prison: soil brimming.
Shielded in his mother’s pristine gardening gloves
He will nurture tender shoots, until Spring
When glorious yellow love will bud again.
image: Ted Hughes
courtesy of http://i.telegraph.co.uk/