Jaye Marie and Anita Dawes

The ghost of summer
Memory of laughing days
Still holds its colour

A small bouquet of heather sits on my desk, as fresh and bright as the day it was gathered. I always hate breaking the stems and take only a single sprig from any plant in the purple sea that paints the hillsides. I feel guilty, as if I am destroying beauty. My depredations are so small and my exile’s joy in the tiny blooms so great… They are a symbol of home and hope, a promise that I will return. I doubt the heather minds.