by Angela Locke
They will say after she has gone,
that was her colour! She always wore it.
Fuchsia pink. And here it is, in
Wordsworth’s garden, that azalea glowing
against dark foliage, over-the-top,
outrageous among gentle English
bluebells, fern-leaved beech, the
delicate magnolia shedding petals
on the grass.
But of course, that was what
she was like. Over-the-top, loving
colour. And do they know, long after,
what and who she really was? Like Dora’s
Tea set in the cabinet, Dorothy’s
brooch, we clutch at straws
to know the people who have gone.
We have met them in corridors and
at the table. We think we know them well,
yet when they leave us,
Say goodbye, shut the door and
walk away, we can no longer
capture them, that ephemeral
essence of bluebell in the air,
that fuchsia pink azalea
she loved so much.
Copyright © 2020 Angela Locke