Broken Flowers

BROKEN FLOWERS i.m. Ann, my sister 1947 – 1997) Heads of fine purple strewn across cement And yellowness heaped up in an airless room – Travesties to which your heart’s golden fire-dust Is an increment on pain. You asked If the pretence of caring had now vanished, Was it real now, under the cracked sky-line, Like your memories dammed up under the rain. Surely some vital drops will float To pull your rootless beauties into holiness Even as they die in a still vase – There is no picture to quite stir the heart As these fallen crowns, noble as the chalice Of Gethsemane, which yet held the terrifying Dark secrets of the world’s crime. As you winter in your youth, Beheaded flowers your beauty, your truth. By Rosemarie Rowley