It was a small gesture of friendship

in which she decided to put into a clear shot glass

that was once filled to the brim, slightly on edge,

with the taste of Old Balvenie and which now

housed two small remnants of pavement grown

flowers, one opened and with its petals drooping

as it reflects the sunlight;

the other closed, frightened, lost and alone

as it remembers what it was to be a wall flower.

 

The taste of ozone hits the Waterloo and Crosby air

and the flowers take different paths,

one flourishes and soon outgrows the shot glass

still hankering for the taste of a Whisky

chaser and the kick of sweet revenge,

the other wilts, wanes and sags,

the wall of memory too much for it to bear.

The one that flourishes is soon transferred with a smile

to the outside wall where it would grow strong but eventually

is trampled upon by the boot of consequence,

the dead one is pressed into history,

between the pages

of a Sonnet crafted by tender thought.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015