It must have been May.
the lilacs were in bloom -
you pulled down a bough and
snapped a bunch for each of us.
Their heavy heads drooped and dropped
Mauve petals on the pavement as we dawdled to school.
Miss McNeil took the posy I offered,
Placed them in a milk skittle
On the windowsill in "pride of place" –
Their heavy scent
Settled on the room like balm as we
Learnt about the Romans and the coliseum.
A rumour rippled
Faint at first -
that blood had been spilt
in our own arena.
Beside the slide and sandpit
Your crushed and broken lilacs lay
like a tribute to the fallen.
I remember your grim determined face
all outraged independence -
How you pushed away my hands
When I tried to scoop and sooth.
How I grieved that
You did not need me,
You who had fought with lions,
And lived to fight another day.
First Draft
We picked lilacs on the way to school, that first day.
Their heavy heads drooped,
Dropped mauve petals as we dawdled,
Swinging them -
Careless.
I gave mine to Mrs Lamb with my dinner money.
She placed them in a milk skittle
On the windowsill in pride of place –
Their heavy, heady scent
Mingled with the paints and playdough.
At first break, a girl telling tales
said that a rough boy had shoved
my little brother in the playground.
That he had cried.
And when I saw your lilacs
Crushed and broken on the steps;
My nine-year-old heart rose to my mouth
And I brimmed with grief.
I ran to find you;
To scoop you up like the flowers
And kiss away your tears.
I remember you - all outraged independence -
Pushing me away,
Shaking your head,
Telling me to “Go away!”
I grieved, that moment, that you did not need me,
But remember too my pride
That you were fine.
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