The Late Flower

Somewhere in her garden
With her gloves on
And her roses in bloom
My mother lives
Her smile widening
To take in all of me
In my poverty
And dearth of those
Hands and eyes.

She pretends she has not
Gone by filling my
Night time with
Whispered words of
Encouragement and I
Drink them in like a
Drowning woman
Starved of love so long
I cannot remember
My colour when I am
In bloom, when my 
Petalled form unfurls
And sways
In summer air.

Without her I am
Brown and withering
I lack care and attention
I need weeding
I am infested by
Death and loss by
The silence I live within
And one frail rose
Cannot well grow 
On its own.

My dry bank
Cries for the water
That is gone
And I can find no other 
Source
That will sustain.

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