Ancient languages

I would send you primroses, you know,
tongue tumbled posies, feathered messages on air,
that affair once inferred now distilled and bottled,
fermenting on the shelf at your Mums.

I would send you primroses,
where Victoria, who knew your name,
would labour it echoing
into an unaccounted room,
staff only coming to re-turn out the lights.

I would send you primroses,
one for every day my heart has seemed astray,
you left believing I was indifferent to your face,
displaced from my garden, rested at your door,

a forevermore.