My mother wanted a garden,
not a rose garden, but cut grass
and real flowers. Not flowerpots
on a window ledge or plants
clinging to a wall but a green expanse
to obliterate her stone backyard.
The garden was a dream she held onto
when things passed or changed
as they ruthlessly do.
It was near the end, in a park,
that she spoke of germination.
Father and I saw no possibility
of that. It would mean mowing
the grass and responsibilities.
Her wish was planted deep in a soil
uniquely her own. Perhaps it began
when she was a child, that she was led
to an ideal place, maybe the secret garden
of a book, where enchantment was permitted.
It would be both the first and last refuge
from disappointment and suffering.
Somewhere beyond ordinary happiness
where she’d view flowers as a talisman
against insistent wind and rain.
Alan Price lives in Camden, London. The High Window Press has published three collections of his poetry. Wardrobe Blues for a Japanese Lady (2018), The Trio Confessions (2020) and The Cinephile Poems (2023) He is poet, short story writer and film critic for the arts magazine London Grip.