Beams of heat burned through your tights
so the sun blushed your legs. No guard
under your dress, striped navy and white.
You were sat on the hill, like a postcard

of the countryside. That day,
you plucked the stem, the longest one.
Then tossed the flower away,
like Miss Polly’s dolly. Nearly done,

you finished the chain. Pick, tear,
snap them out the grass.
Your hippy-self, wore it in your hair.
“Why not?” Those few weeks were our last.

You left it, dried, brittle, dead.
Remind yourself I’m here - wear it on your head.