After you died, well-wishers sent me flowers.
The lilies they sent attacked me with scent -
my nose itched and my head ached - they won the fight.
When the white roses arrived, their petals were paper,
curling and brown at the edges. I tried to revive them
but they insisted on fading.
Hours I spent watching you fighting and fading. Then, death.
and now the flowers are doing exactly the same.
I want to remember the meadows we explored.
Small native flowers hiding in the grass -
bird's foot trefoil, purple vetch, tiny, gallant scarlet pimpernel -
humming with busy insects. Wait for me there.
I'll plant your ashes underneath a tree
with deep, deep roots, to wind around your heart
and keep it safe.