They creep towards the Chapel of Rest where abandoned wreathes wait to be disassembled for delivery to a nearby old folks home, to brighten the lives of those awaiting their turn.
The children pluck at the variety of blooms before stealing away, each grubby fist clutching a broken-stemmed, wilted nosegay of glads and carnations.
It’s Mothers’ Day. Tell Mum you love her, adverts declare. Say it with flowers.