(A poem of love in which the widow does not speak)
My whole family, you might have thought
Paraded here on the shelf.
I had sisters who glowed
In the colours of the grass and the trees.
And others like the blue of the sky.
But my grouping was the pink of carnations,
And of them, I was the smallest.
At the time I met her she was sitting
On a café table beside the river.
So many travellers stop here on their way through.
It was late in the day and I was strutting the bank
On a cheerful winter afternoon.
The woman at that table
Turned her attention from the pink figurine,
A glassy object, and called as if to me.
“Hello there,” she called; so familiarly.
I continued in my best strut, and,
I suppose, gave her some sort of metaphoric pleasure.
She continued to speak of carnations, Otaki Pinks;
The corsage for a grave and memories
Of a small spray of them long lying in a drawer.
And having emptied her cup she then drove away.
I am the sun, who after two weeks of rain
Now have a chance to shine a little today.
And follows now late happenings
In a graveyard. A trowelled moving aside
Of soil, not too deep: a sufficient receptacle for a gift.
A small gift, solid and glassy; generously warm and pink.
Yes she will stand the test of time and kept safe
By the small spread of soil from fingers that might
Devastatingly thieve her away.
The widow bending there has tamped the soil
I hear her speak of a bantam rooster and smile.
My small pink body and wings
Float well here, a little below ground.
I see he who passed away so recently
And whose ashy hands lie a little lower
Has, as yet, no dates recorded.
I give him my date and the name of my fine glass crafter
Brendon Sole May 2008.