A stand of ivory irises, gold-tongued,
cinerarias in royal velvets.
We pass my father’s camellia tree,
its yield of coral cups the first since his death.
Long years. You call it ‘the miracle tree’.
Nearby, this mandala bloom: splayed petals
frame the abounding heart, heart-red.

I think of these hopeful, circumspect days
as your harvest won from pain endured;
this garden, your own small share
of life’s quest for beauty in survival.
At dusk, whether we listen or not,
bird songs will wreathe this old house in splendour.
Later, lotus-stars on a black pond.