Primrose

The primrose reminds me of my Grandad.

When I see it growing there along the edge of the path through the woods,

Small clusters of yellow, soft like a pale butter.

A watered-down sunbeam on a blanket of wild garlic,

The bluebells standing tall, but the gentle primrose

Is what I am drawn to today.

He grew these in his garden,

Along a border made of stone and shells collected from the seaside -

Maybe Courtown?

His garden with the golden privet hedge,

Kept neat with heavy shears.

The sound of the clipping rhythmic and satisfying,

Like the sound the mower made when he pushed it back and forth -

Whirr, whirr, whirr, the blades catching the grass.

Standing with his cap on his head, his braces and sleeves rolled up.

Stuck into his work but always time for a smile,

When he stopped and wiped his brow and his blue eyes softened and creased,

Warmth and light on even the darkest day.