by Mary Thomson

My mother would send me to cut some
from a corner of a field
to put with daffodils from the garden,
palm, not willow she called them.
We paid for ten wands
bound in a flute of plastic paper,
each pussy foot with a nap like velvet,
grey satin to a fingertip.
As spring ran in to May
pollen formed, the flowers fell.
I swept them into my palm with ageing hands.
All the flowers we bring home are reminders.