Helen Marjorie Holmes

How soft the roses bloom,
climbing the trellised gateway
under which you pose
in your pale blue dress.
A water colourist
retouched the print —
the only way in those days —
delicately, in pastels.

Your face and bosom still
have a girlish roundness.
Your smile is shy. I wonder
if my father took the photo
and it’s him you’re smiling at.
I have an idea it was taken
at The Orchard House in Spreyton
soon after you were engaged.

I seem to remember that trellis.
I think my Nana grew roses
in the gardens of your home,
my Nana your mother, who died
when you and I were both
too young to lose her.
Later my gardener Dad
grew standard roses, all colours,
in the home where I grew up.

But back then in the picture, you
were just a young girl
who knew nothing
of the future that would come —
children, war, divorce....
Now there are very few left
who remember you at all, Mum,
and none but me, I think, to recall
even the picture, let alone the girl.


April PAD Challenge 19
Prompt: A poem about someone, their name as title.
(I chose her maiden name, the one she had at the time of the photo.)