Flower scents can sometimes linger –
remember that sunlit riverbank
alive with a thousand wild blooms which we
gathered together in such
reckless abandon
as a token of our
never-ending love? –
today I found a single faded petal, dry as dust, still faintly perfumed.


Wild Flowers Growing On The Riverbank Stock Image - Image of ...


image: Dreamstime.com

source: fragrant from https://randomwordgenerator.com

14 thoughts on “Hindsight

    1. Glad you liked it, Christine! 🙂 Yes, I heard that, although Proust’s recollections were famously prompted by the taste of a madeleine … smell and taste go together, so what the heck?

  1. Well, done, Dave. Well done! A poem of beauty tinged with sadness. As the old song says: “Those were the days my friend; we thought they’d never end.” And yet, life moves on. There is new beauty and new love. The cycle continues until it does no more. –Curt

    1. Thanks for that, Curt, and I suppose living through the cycle would be simply repetition without sometimes painful experience deepening our understanding. Said it before but I’m with Keats who saw life (he had so little of it, bless him!) as a process of ‘soul-building’.

  2. Pressing flowers – takes me back to sunny days when the grown ups were more interested in preserving memories than we kids were, we just wanted to revel in the here and now of fresh crushed flowers and grass. Now of course I’d like a few dried petals to help retrieve those experiences. Thanks Dave.

  3. Great thing about poems – we all read them differently. Thank goodness the mind is the last bit of us to be locked down.

    1. That’s a heartening thought, Mike. Freedom under restriction. Puts me in mind, somehow, of this poem:

      By Louis MacNeice

      The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
      Spawning snow and pink roses against it
      Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
      World is suddener than we fancy it.

      World is crazier and more of it than we think,
      Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
      A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
      The drunkenness of things being various.

      And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
      Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes—
      On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands—
      There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

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