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Stings Spring's dusk lingers in plaited shadows, enters the garden, wades into weeds and grass. Hands clear a way through hairy leaves of nettle, grasp blue-eyed forget-me nots, yellow daisies, violets. Stalks smelling of damp ground twist; petals recline on fingers, wrists purple with stings. Pulp-heap of flowers at his side, he picks a bunch of nettle, fastens it with black wire, walks into the house. On the mantlepiece, his wife's picture, daisies in dark hair, pierces him with metal blue eyes. Her lips, half hiding sharp teeth, conceal venomous tongue tip. He places the nettle bouquet in a marble vase. Red marks all over itching hands and arms, he scratches, rubs, scratches, smiles. © Paula Grenside |
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Commentary. I read an article in the local newspaper. The reporter briefly wrote about the odd behaviour of a widower shortly after his wife's death. Late in the afternoon, for days, he went into HER garden, methodically destroyed all flower beds till the garden was a mass of brown soil and weeds. The comment was that probably the man was so afflicted that he could not bear the sight of what was his wife's pride; an act of quiet folly. Neighbours, too, commented on his kindness, meek character as well as on the dead woman, a bit bossy and crazy for flowers. Something drew my attention, though. The reporter who interviewed the man, noticed that there was only one photo of the woman in the room, with a plastic flower in a vase. When asked why he did it, he answered.: "She loved flowers!"-- smiling. His garden devastation and the plastic flower made me reflect on what kind of relationship, married life, the man must have had for more than 40 years. His behaviour could be read in different ways. The poem is the result of my personal reading. Paula Grenside Bonfire contributor |