This poem describes visiting my aunt who was terminally ill. For some reason, I brought her a bunch of lilies. My father later told me that she had always called these ‘Death Flowers’. I never had the chance to make amends.
The Meaning of Lilies
for my aunt
You brought me lilies, she said,
and, with a look, I learnt
that lilies were for the dead.
Never having considered them before,
their unspun spectral shroud of spathe,
their untoiled-for wealth of gold spadix,
a tower of soul in white flesh,
annunciation, penetration,
death and resurrection,
I may as well have worn black.
Late-stage blooming, she looked well.
And that fooled me too,
she told me as much.
So out of touch with death,
I brought lilies to the bed.
Heaping wrong on wrong,
I said I’d see her again.
When I next came down,
I was too late. She was gone.
I wish I could keep my word
and still make that visit.
This time I would bring
daffodil and tulip,
primrose and cowslip,
great bundles of Spring
that need no elucidating.