When a wisp of smoke carries the dearly departed heavenwards a rag-taggle of children from the poor end of town sneaks into the crematorium and memorial gardens; hearse and mourners long gone.
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.
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.
