Budding lovers beware
of the Flowers of the Garage Forecourt;
they are not for courting.
Love will not blossom
with the Flowers of the Garage Forecourt,
these blundering bouquets
of cellophaned sadness:
the slip-road roses and tarmacked tulips,
petrol pump peonies
and crushed-dream chrysanthemums.
All those dahlias of desperation.
The I-forgot-you forget-me-nots.
Please know this, would-be customers
of the Flowers of the Garage Forecourt:
romance wilts with a lack of forethought.
There was death amongst the daffodils
the day Fleur took her secateurs
and ran amok through the flock
of haughty culturalists in the Chelsea gardens
without so much as a beg your pardon.
Roses were red, violets were too,
ears were sheared, nosegays chopped,
toes trimmed and green fingers lopped,
as Fleur took the lawn into her own hands
and mowed them all down.
Even the failure of Lady Pru’s azalea bed
became overshadowed by the trail of dead
and the herbaceous borders
filled up with her slaughters.
There was carnage in the carnations,
annihilation amidst the anemones,
hysteria in the wisteria,
nastiness in the nasturtiums.
Nobody could remember
a flower show bloodier.
Someone had even been nipped
in the buddleia.
Brian Bilston 