Peonies on my Birthday

George Collis 2 Nov 1925 - 15 May 1979

The peonies flower every year on my birthday

It was always remarked upon

But no-one ever thought to tell me why.
I just thought liking peonies was part of your love

of Japan, like calling our home Sayonara
Teaching me to use chopsticks,
To open Japanese trickboxes and to
Sort of count to five- (ichi, ni, san, frei, go)

Even when I offered to bring you peonies from
My new flat in Westgate, "Oh no" you said
"You can’t cut peonies, they shed their petals."
Even now I remember your smile
But you didn’t think to tell me why
And far too soon you were gone. I tried
To get a peony to grow on your grave
But as you know too well, they’re fussy flowers

Yet still the peonies at my mother's
Bloom on my birthday every year
And in Paris on my birthday I saw the peonies,
Cut flowers in the florist's. The only time
I heard your voice, saying “Buy those peonies
From me for your birthday, they must be special.” And so
They were, they kept a week. I’ve saved the petals
And still no-one thought to tell me.

Finally last birthday (52), my mother saw I didn’t know.
The peonies, passed from a great aunt via my grandfather
To my father, had sulked ever since their transplant
Then the day, the very day that I was born
You flew up to the hospital crying, “The peonies
Have flowered! They’ve finally flowered!” Later you tried
To cut and bring them to us but they shed their petals.
I was so lucky not to be called Peony, considering.