I am using up what we could not bear
to throw away in house clearance:
the smell of your chic shower gel
is rosemary for remembrance.
We guess you took pleasure in its fragrance
but never got to ask. And never gave
this hand-made honey, eaten now
but never spread on toast to savour
at your garden window. Those plants held dear,
whose names I never did recall
from one told visit to the next:
almost to the end you could name them all.
v.2021
Those who knew my Mum in her final days will realise this is somewhat of a rose-tinted reflection. I guess it depends on how you measure "almost". Yet despite how Alzheimer's unravelled her faculties, it was remarkable to me how long she retained the exact nomenclature of her garden.
ReplyDeleteCompletely resonated with me Mark. My mum didn't have Alzheiemers but the whole poem is absolutely what I am going through now and my mum had such a love of plants too. How I wished I had taken more interest, now its too late to ask. Losing your mum is like being an orphan. She must be looking down and so very proud of you ����
ReplyDeleteThank you Jayne. I do - in an unforeseen way - feel orphaned. That's a good analogy.
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