by Paul Wooldridge
The trees along my route are wrapped
in flowers, quickly passed each day
but only noticed by a few.
Their colours burst then slip from view
as each is lost, submerged in grey,
their brightness all too quickly sapped.
Should death come on a carriageway
to leave me by some roadside oak,
do not leave flowers at the scene
to highlight loss, what could have been.
A further sacrifice, they soak
in rain, abandoned to decay.
No, focus on this life and not
the flowers left, ignored, to rot.