On seeing a petal or petals, sometimes in expected places sometimes in unexpected places, I always wonder in what small way they fitted into somebody’s story.
I saw it there, lying trapped in the cloying grey dust of the street,
a rich ruby red, a vestige perhaps of when two lovers did meet
and heart felt words were said.
It caught my eye, serenely nestled amongst dead leaves on the lane,
a crimson so fair, maybe lost from a gift to ease someone’s pain,
simply to show they care.
How poignant it is, there beneath the names resting on cobbled stone,
the colour of blood, a floral mot mori for all those to me unknown,
lying in foreign mud.
A smile blossoms, as they flutter around and gather at the church gate,
the colours of May, dropped by a bride who was just a little bit late,
for this her special day.