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Poem

Curled up on the floor. In the middle of the day. I dream.
Images of hats and pills come out of nowhere. 

“I visit my garden each morning 
searching the ground to see
if the unused pills I found 
in my mother’s pill boxes,
and planted, had produced
a rose or purple Phlox.
I buried her tablet boxes, 
buried them, like tiny coffins.
I lined the miniature graves
with crushed blue velvet,
(like the cases that stored 
her elegant forks used only 
on special occasions, 
at four o’clock tea-time, 
the cake served primly
on gold-rimmed plates).

Treading through the wet grass, 
rootling through the fertile soil,
I saw, without surprise,
blue hats growing wild, 
velvet and tulle, 
pills and sequins 
scattered and whimsical,
my mother decorating 
their botanical brims
with silver cake forks 
tied with ribbons”.

I wake up,
eyes blurred,
I can barely see.
I make a cup of tea,
cut a slice of currant cake, 
and eat it with a small, 
antique English fork.

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