He chuckles into space
At her disapproving face
As he takes the crystal glassware from its ornamental case
Along the window sills
Beside dispenser packs of pills
The perfume bottles salvaged from the sale
She would joke his perfume was brown ale
He reads the labels over
And wades through grass and clover
The book of British trees clasped in his hand
And he gathers fallen blossom from the land
Bending takes a while
When you've walked a country mile
But it's good to work his muscles in the sun
The joy is in the doing not the done
The scent is none too strong
But it really won't last long
So precious quick the petals start to brown
Once more into the fields in dressing gown
He ties each sandwich bag with a disused Christmas tag
And documents the scent with studious care
Then he wanders round the house that he once shared with his spouse
And he fills up every piece of crystalware