I love nasturtiums. Sadly, this year both they and my sweet peas suffered from the dreadful summer, and the recent good weather came too late to produce many flowers. I picked these this morning from the pot where most of the leaves are gone but a few blooms remain. Eleven years ago I wrote a poem about nasturtiums that was really about my mother, and I read it at her funeral three months later.
I felt sure I must have done a blip like this before, but couldn't find one when I checked. Perhaps it was simply because I'd blogged it on my poetry site. Anyway, here it is.
Two nasturtiums bloomed today.
I saw their gold as the sun
Tipped my autumn garden with
Illusive warmth. I took the seeds
From the drawer you placed them in
Years since, and planted late in some
Faint hope of their survival.
They flower, but the year is spent
As are your years, and winter comes.
These unplanted seeds were hope
Abandoned as your vigour faded,
Their tiny sunbursts a last dawn
Of tenderness before the dark.
Go on your journey, gently, now,
The last sun warm upon your face.