Fresh flowers stand, in bouquets, on the wall
beside the narrow road, marking the spot
where the motorcyclist died at eight o’clock
in the early August evening, bright and gold,
the air filled with breezes and with quiet,
and after, only echoes. Now, the grievers
mark this single, random point in space
where continuity broke for one young man.
We mark the sites where such events occur,
not how or why. The trace stored in the mind
is spatial, visual; registers that way,
as words and reasons cannot. The old house
we were born in; where we wed; where we shall die
will, similarly, bear our small bouquets.
Beginnings, turnings, endings; we recall
the places where these changes have occurred
in shuddering, jerky, short, chaotic lives
that, somehow, need bouquets to synthesize.
"BOUQETS"
Trevor Hewett
It seems we have always sent our loved ones into the 'after world' covered with garlands of flowers in season. A cave was found in Germany (I believe) where a family of Neanderthals had been put to rest. Even after thousands of years one could recognize flowers strewn over their bodies. Another example was the body of Tutankhamun, (Tut the Life of Amun.) Around his neck in the last golden coffin surrounding his body were couplets of cornflowers which indicated he died in March or April. These people from a faraway time were obviously loved and considered valuable.