Nostalgia


I was standing by mother’s wisteria,
The wistful, wizened curls of lilac like lavender cream.
I was thinking of her strange hysteria
About the man cutting her hydrangeas in her dream.
She would tell me I ought to be careful,
To only take trimmings from the left-hand side,
And me gazing lazily on with the dog,
Only to head back on to the cool of inside,
Where we would stand by the wisteria every day until she died.

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