Flowers Know Nothing of our Grief for Eivlin, Kieran and Patrick

The dog creeps out of her bed at night, pads towards the bedroom door, bumps against it as she turns to lie down, whimpers, stays close and licks her paw. But the roses, pink and delicate, unfurl their buds in the sunshine, scent the steps up to the front door. Their indifference should break us, instead, they shore up a dyke against despair; they play a tune in a minor key; they whisper among themselves in an old Esperanto; they intimate that hope is never dead until this bewildered earth stops throwing up roses.

11.06.2016

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