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.

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