Fragrance of yellow flowers

Maud hobbled down the street
Her wornout shoes curling up at the toes
Her stockings sagging and her clothes awry

From under the knotted scarf
A few wisps of greyish hair escaped
To frame her wrinkled weathered face

I mustn’t be late
She admonished herself
And hurried towards the meeting place

Just once a year she came back again
To the place where the yellow flowers grow

The March wind had howled with grief and pain
And swept the last November leaves away
And cleansed the air
And awakened the trees
And rocked the birds
And filled the yellow trumpet flowers with fragrances
More lovely than a thousand scents

Maud blinked and paused for breath

The yellow flowers nodded their heads in the breeze
And whispered messages that only Maud could hear

And her heart was young and joyful again
And her stockings were silk and her hair was fair
And a caring arm encircled her waist
And the trumpets sounded within her soul

Maud sat alone among the flowers
And listened to the voices of the past
And spread her arms out wide
And shed a tear of gratitude
For the lasting fragrance of yellow flowers


Faith Puleston

Herdecke, Germany

  • Artist

Artist's Description

This poem is dedicated to my mother, who loved yellow flowers. Her name was not Maud and she was not a tramp, but she was extremely lonely after my father died and there was a certain mysticism about her. Now I am older I can empathize much better with her. What a pity that wasn’t possible while she was alive.

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