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The flowers on the mantelpiece faded

eventually their jewel bright, improbably optimistic unenglish heads

drooped and drained of their overheated hue and the palm leaf

greenery complementary dried to crisp brown spikes.

The water in which they stood turned brackish, scummy

Staining the cheap glass vase with rings that marked each days transpiration

You knew I hated dead flowers, computers of the hours

That I spent staring at from my imprisoning repose

But I don’t suppose that it matters, now, least of all to me,

free as I am from such petty concerns.

You sat beside me thoughtful grieving

And held my hand as I surrendered not quite

Believing that I wouldn’t be home, soon, to change them

As I always did in uncharacteristic bursts of domesticity

You can’t bear to move a single thing that reminds you

Blinds you to the recent past

But you have to try and move forward dear

Remember we joked that it wouldn’t couldn’t last?

Like those damned dead flowers, self beheaded, shredded petals on a dusty surface

I’m not here now to demand that someone makes them disappear. 

Only I fear that you need a civilising hand

To refresh the mantelpiece’s macabre display

And since it can’t be me now I suggest

As if you can hear me over the roaring repetition of dead dead dead

You get someone new in




© C Jackson 2010

No reproduction permitted in any form without the written permission of the author





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