Forgotten to Bloom
Every morning the flowers in the meadow raised their heads. I watched them from the riverbank as a scirocco licked my bare legs and arms, the birds and the bees, too.
Summer lasted longer than normal; each new year the same. Still the flowers clasped shut unwilling to colourise my little corner of the planet. Still I waited. We all waited.
The first snows of a late winter happened overnight. I stepped out into a world of freckled frosts and individual snowflakes. The flowers, at last, cold and confused, had bloomed.
They died the same day as confused by man’s earth as us all.