i.m. Ian Jones
There is no right age to die – or way to mourn.
As I thought of him, the small bush I could see
from the desk I wrote at – a plant whose name
we had forgotten, lost – was burgeoning:
its leaves greening, swelling, as spring, despite
that day’s north westerly, took hold. In time –
which he no longer had or had in
profligate abundance – an array
of delicate pink and white flowers would bloom.
I thought of his talents, his unassuming
skills – mammon’s measurements – and what makes us
human: his smile, chuckle, patience, gentle
irony, and his kindness. That chance
perennial would be a remembrance.
It flowered with an abundance of petals
in early summer. Within weeks the flowers
began to die, singly, and then in bunches.
The leaves withered and fell. He would have grinned
hugely at such bathos.