Talking of yellow flowers, I wrote this poem quite soon after my mother died. It's really a tribute to someone whose main enemy was her own sadness and inability to intercommunicate. There must have been more joy in her life than she ever revealed to me. I hope so, anyway. I'm so sorry that I was never a "comfort" to her, my own life having turned so many corners and drifted further and further away into oblivion (from her point of view).
The fragrance of yellow flowers
Maud hobbled down the street
Her wornout shoes curling up at the toes
Her stockings sagging and her clothes awry
From under the knotted scarf
A few wisps of greyish hair escaped
To frame her wrinkled weathered face
I mustn't be late
She admonished herself
And hurried towards the meeting place
Just once a year she came back again
To the place where the yellow flowers grow
The March wind had howled with grief and pain
And swept the last November leaves away
And cleansed the air
And awakened the trees
And rocked the birds
And filled the yellow trumpet flowers with fragrances
More lovely than a thousand scents
Maud blinked and paused for breath
The yellow flowers nodded their heads in the breeze
And whispered messages that only Maud could hear
And her heart was young and joyful again
And her stockings were silk and her hair was fair
And a caring arm encircled her waist
And the trumpets sounded within her soul
Maud sat alone among the flowers
And listened to the voices of the past
And spread her arms out wide
And shed a gratitude
For the lasting fragrance of yellow flowers
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