The scent of pink petals is hanging in the room:
with my eyes closed I’m with you in that flower shop,
years ago but the flowers smell the same as then,
to get something nice but cheap for a funeral –
we didn’t really know the deceased very well
who was in his eighties when he died in his sleep,
we only knew that he liked flowers very much.
We ended up spending our money on roses
and on those flowers we didn’t know what to call.
We almost forgot to dress in black. The graveyard
never smelt so grand and fine that I remember.
Memories last longer than flowers in water.
For ever: a kind old man behind his window,
waving, when I smell those pink flowers in the room.