Where new writing finds its voice

The Floral Mix

Liz Verlander

‘Wordsworth’s flowers are threatened by
a new Narcissi that will cross-pollinate!’
your mother cried
one Sunday, late in the afternoon.
(There had been silence for hours
whilst she read the Telegraph.)

It was too soon
to know not to laugh at her outrage.
It was too early to realise her disdain
for the beauty in genes woven.

Later it was plain.
But not at that stage 

So when we trumpeted our love
the battle was already lost.
Your ways are not my ways 
she informed us, a frost
encrusting her gaze.

Back to the gloom
you retreat, only able to bloom
with her sun on your face.