Why I'd Never Go To Holland

 

I wouldn’t like the food, all that cheese,

would miss the couque au chocolat and 

coffee eclairs of Belgium, the sounds 

of words I knew or at least could guess

the meaning of, couldn’t tell myself that 

Charlotte and Emily were once there. 

The land is too flat, and even the tulips

wouldn't charm me much. Straight rows

in fields unlike the valleys of Farndale -

dotted with daffodils and later bluebells.

Not like the two or three that appeared 

one year in Granny’s front garden 

near the summer house, deep purple 

as I’d never seen them before. 

Not mauve or plum but violet 

like a priest’s robes at Lent. 

I asked her where she got them

and she said she didn’t know,

thought I must have grown them.

Did I think therefore she wouldn’t mind

if I took them back, pulled the bulbs

from the soil next time I came?

I hid them in my pocket, planted 

them at home, when they sprouted

said Granny gave them to me 

as she had a gladiolus another time.

I can’t remember if they flowered,

whether I dug them up again,

brought them to the new house,

whether Granny noticed they had gone,

thought they’d died. Perhaps they had.