lays them down:

he brings her flowers in the morning
when the dew’s still on the grass
and the birds are chirping eagerly
he lays them down for her
white daisies tied up with silk
a pale blue ribbon that matches
the colour of her eyes in the early light of morning –
his favourite time of day
he reaches out to trace the lines of her face
her jaw, her lips, her soft, soft hair
so smooth now beneath his fingertips
but then he can’t recall a time they weren’t

he brings her flowers in the dusk of evening
when the stars are rising in the sky
and the crickets are chirping ardently
he lays them down for her
yellow lilies tied up with care
a soft pink ribbon that matches
the colour of her lips, swollen from tender evening kisses –
his favourite way to end the day
he reaches out to trace the lines of her picture
so young, so beautiful, so full of life - she’ll remain forever
and beneath his fingertips, the words –
so smooth, so hard, so cold, etched in granite –
that leave him reeling still

he brings her flowers everyday…