Your roses ran so tall and wild this year 
I passed right by your house, bewildered 
by the frenzy of petal and scent 
the vigour of suckers and thorns unchecked. 
 
My mother had no time 
for dead-heading or summer bedding. 
And I spent months inside, assembling 
folders of doctor's letters, food charts, 
lists of your medication, 
print-outs of symptoms and conditions known 
or guessed at. Then the daily updates 
erring on the side of optimism 
in painful predictive text. 
 
Better to have paid attention 
to your rhubarb thrusting its rubbery leaves 
through sturdy marigolds and fluttery stocks 
to the burgeoning hydrangea already 
shaking out a confetti of sky-blue petals 
to arum lilies relentlessly unfurling blooms 
delicate as skin or the runaway kittens 
scrambling along the fence's corner-post 
giddy to have got this far. 
 
When we brought you home 
I barely noticed the changes wrought 
by recent rain. Though I did catch sight 
of three spears of gladioli 
flamingo-red, chiffon frilled, tumbling 
under their own weight. 
 
It’s only now your funeral is over 
I step outside, restless 
as the evening’s clacking blackbirds 
to find next-door's nasturtiums erupting 
below the fence in orange and gold. 
And I see how the day's unbearable drizzle 
has painted your garden; wet and sudden, 
this summer's fierce rhapsody.