Seedlings

The un-used drive could make you gasp,
self-seeded Columbine, burst through cracks,
rampant now, since mother passed.
Alone she stares with radio two
egg on toast and an infused brew.

A little girl on holiday from school,
collecting petals could seem cruel,
stealing colour is against the rules.
Delicate heads to a mechanical claw
further than planned, greedy for more.

Lost to the beauty of the purple pink shower,
didn’t hear the door, won’t be missed for hours,
Tesco bags stuffed with intricate flowers,
oh don't be upset and here, wipe your eyes,
if you'd like to make perfume, step inside.

Two hours it took to grind out the essence,
from pungent petals a flirtatious fragrance,
three small bottles ready as presents.
One, the young girl gave to her mother,
she kept one herself, which left, one other.

The girl and her friends called round the next day,
she gave them juice served on a tea tray,
oh I’ve brought you a gift, if that’s ok?
why of course it is, she smiled with delight.
That was the start of the perfume club nights.

The young ladies' visits put her pension on hold,
always looked shocked by the stories they told,
she helped them bloom, vibrant and bold.
Now every year when the Columbine appear,
she places a drop behind each ear.