READER Mary Thomson writes: “It’s nearly the time of year to be looking for pussy willows to bring into the house, and I always think of my mother when I see them. I love their elegance and they do last, but, like all cut flowers, they also act as a memento mori.”

PUSSY WILLOW

My mother would send me to cut some

from a corner of a field

to put with daffodils from the garden,

palm, not willow she called them.

We paid for ten wands

bound in a flute of plastic paper,

each pussy foot with a nap like velvet,

grey satin to a fingertip.

As spring ran in to May

pollen formed, the flowers fell.

I swept them into my palm with ageing hands.

All the flowers we bring home are reminders.