The secateurs

 

“Father, excuse me, Father,” I once said as a child,

“Why do you prune the roses in our garden whilst in full bloom?

How can you cut the life short of something that looks and smells so lovely?

Mother will be heartbroken,

these are the roses we planted to remember her mother,

my grandmother now gone.”

 

“Son,” he said, “these are yours now.

Don’t be frightened to cut the roses,

they will grow back even more beautiful next season.”

 

And in my hands, he placed the heritage

of his father’s, and his father’s, and his father before him

In my hand, he placed a pair of secateurs.

“Remember, son,” he said gently,

“let go… to permit the light.”