22nd February 2014

Sonnet 98

When I die, tie the brutal buds of spring

Tight in my name'd wreath, their stems cut trim,

Wired close to a florist's wire metal thing

Bent to commemorate me and not him.

Buy them all hothoused, they won't need to smell;

Whatever the season - make grey their hue:

Compared to him I've not got much to tell

(Apart from being here while our kids grew).

But customise my coffin reddish white,

Paint it "...like canker in the fragrant rose"*,

Draw some formulae for lover's delight -

"Drawne after you, you patterne all of those.

Science washed romance (but not love?) away,

As with (grey) shaddow I with these did play."


*See Shakespeare's sonnet 95.