The invitation to someone’s home for an occasion,
a dinner party,
a date,
a wedding,
a funeral,
to make an entrance,
a lasting impression,
to sympathise.
Picked them up on the way there,
round the corner from the train station,
purchased beforehand at Columbia Road flower market on a Sunday,
a dedicated stall or shop,
on the forecourt of a garage,
in the front section of the supermarket.
Wrapped in plastic or paper,
held with sticky tape, rubber band or ribbon
they’re local or from the other side of the earth,
a glorious single specimen or a mixed bunch
where colours and types of stems
are cultural signifiers and mood registers,
smells become an aide-mémoire,
the power of or over nature
a symbol of love
put in a vase
in a little water.
A still life,
on the kitchen table,
in the hallway,
the front room,
the sideboard,
the mantlepiece,
a coffin.
One week later the flowers droop,
they lose lustre and some petals
the colour drains,
the water turns green
and while one hand throws in the bin,
the other stops
and then carefully preserves
Dried followers
This article is taken from Port issue 29. To continue reading, buy the issue or subscribe here
