Sweet pea

You don’t get to choose - whatever it says on the packet you’re offered, not in this life that’s for certain. Every year the same good intentions let down by the comfort of familiarity and imperfect planning; as you console yourself with imagining a rosier view just like in the illustration. They can’t produce a blue variety you know, well that’s two of us then. And it’s not for want of trying please be very clear on this. It’s an unending search, a quest to look into those acqua pools.Lucky my favourite’s lilac then. Only kidding, but then you knew that. Every year I forget a little less, regard you as a ritual, an honour. Keep warm dreams across the barren land of winter. The joy of newness unfolding. It does not know the past, only reaches for its future. It’s always the scent I remember and the way the tendrils entwine around my heart. And today, as always, I wish I’d planted you earlier. And just so you know I’d have always chosen you; whether I could picture you or not.