The flowers from the market: A poem 

I die with grief at the chrysanthemums 

that I bought from the market  

for Mum, Dad and you 

They can’t last forever, however. They must be cast 

in the garbage bin. I feel their petals fall within 

my soul. A scent of descent. A lent 

of absence. Like I’m on a road with no corners 

to lay permanent stones in honour. 

I graze on loneliness, because love is distance 

Some gone through doorways into infinite departing 

Some still around, but just failing to touch 

Somethings in life are all about remembrance and yearning 

The moments of recollection, of endearments not coming back 

Of things where dust settles, only to be swiped clean again 

in fondness over thoughts and memories 

and in cherished windows of photo frames 

The flowers come and go in a fortnight 

But I feel the epitaph encrusted in my soul