Dream time, lazy and long, is over
It lasted a generation
But real life
Came and stole the colours
Home-baked bread no more
everything is easy, shop-bought
and taste of the average.
I know of a woman who stole
Flowers for her son’s coffin
It stood there in the snow
Grave diggers on strike.
But a bouquet of flowers don’t
Mind what they were intended for
Rootless and decaying anyway
So let the mother be, she didn’t
Do anything wrong, just rearranged
Flowers bought in a shop from a grave.
The shop had too many; for her son
no flower in the world could hide
a mother’s grief
