Flowers

Newly picked bouquets

line a fence, post to post,

by the beach - this must have been

the place she loved the most.

I stop to read inscriptions,

letters to a muted mind;

a last breath, a final footprint

on the Earth to which we bind.

A park bench and a silver plate

the centre of its back.

A loved one's sweet initiative

or a dying wish perhaps.

I read the rusted silver,

message ground in ivory letter:

"Our brightest flower, Jasmine.

Loved by anyone that met her."

'Two thousand six to twenty-ten',

said the weeping park bench tile.

I wonder all the folk who've read

this ode to taken child.

When the beach bouquets are wilted,

will someone take them from the posts?

Those dying flowers, the sobbing ink;

ghostly tributes to a ghost.

When the park bench cracks and faulters

and the reaper plays his role,

will someone save the dedicate

to a disembodied soul?