Poetry

Stinking Iris

Strolling down a woodland path
A skinny twig traced our track in the dust.
Surrounded by forget-me-nots, primroses
        and Hawthorn bushes.
A Scarlet Pimpernel fluttered round our heads while
Birdsong mingled with Grandad’s chatter.

We stepped around a puddle of yesterday’s rain.
The trees dispersed, giving way to the sun.
I looked up and saw you, alone
amid the primroses
Basked in your very own sunbeam

“What’s this then?” Grandad tested me
I was only eight but I knew the drill
Hand in his pocket, out came our book
        of ‘Wild Flowers’
Purple petals, sword like leaves
Page two two one, Iris.
“Wrong colour” said me, “read on” said he
I chuckled at your name,
“It’s only stinky when under attack”

I wanted to pluck you, to take you home
“No, remember the golden rule”
I stored the memory and left you be,
Embraced your difference.
Alone but not lonely,
Basked in your sunbeam, tall and proud.

Years have passed and much has changed
I have never returned there,
        there was never a need.

Michelle Cardwell