…on their funeral pyre
The artistry of the sunrise
with her feather soft brushes
she paints the tightly held buds
transforming them
into blossoming beauty
a slow, gentle unfurling
amidst dewdrops and shadows
petal after petal
aching to bloom
surrendering to the morning
whispering promises to the earth
and the overarching sky
for time has no currency here
and death does not reign
their roots woven
below the surface
creating complex webs
highways and byways
that exist in constant darkness
just as the bones of winter
rest in silence until their time
flowers, seemingly fragile
have the blood of warriors
flowing through their veins
they rise and fall
in time with the seasons
their commitment
to resilience and freedom
their scent lingering in the air
long after their departure
a gift to all who pass here
who breathe it in, like life
and find memories
strangely whispering
from beyond
blooming in hearts and souls
where they once
were marked as lost
still blossoming
on their funeral pyre
© Ann Bagnall
