My Mother had cut wildflowers from the garden and placed them in a glass vase in my room when I came to stay, pink campion, bluebell, yellow poppy, and forget-me-not. The fragile posy is beautiful, and lasts for the three days of my visit, before the campion drops its head and the bluebell fades, yellow petals falling from the poppy. Wild flowers succumb swiftly when they are picked.
I cannot bear to discard the vanquished blooms, so remove them from the vase, and wrap them in foil to take with me when I leave. They will dry and shrivel, their colours fading, the petals becoming brittle. I should like to draw them, to explore their significance for me in a drawing, but find myself unable to do so, encumbered as I am by the weight of fear.