They were bright red on the day he bought them
From the impossible shop in the mountains
So far away.
Like her throat in the heat of passion
As their skins moved like silk
And their lips were liquid joy.
Now, faded, she gathers the leaves around their stems
Like a cloak over the beloved
As the colour, though not the memory
They were bright red
On the day he bought them
On the day he died.
In response to Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, #writephoto