November 3, 2017Poem
He bought flowers
naturememorytimeidentitymortalitysolitude
He bought flowers
Every Saturday
After coffee
And the sports pages.
Red roses were a speciality
But he could choose
A fine bouquet
When he tried.
She was always delighted
The truth
Lay in her eyes
There could be no lies
Between them.
The first time
He bought carnations
Instead of Roses
A mistake not made twice.
Not that he knew the names
Of every flower
It was she, who did
Always the gardener.
Apart from a few
Family favourites
They were not something
He remembered
Not really a priority
He was sorry to say
To anyone who would listen
Not that many did.
He bought red roses
Every Saturday
After coffee
And the sports pages.
Lay them down
On the earth
Beside the tree
Spent a few minutes
Alone
With his thoughts
Not that anybody
Saw him
He was invisible now.