They seemed to bloom for weeks,
banks of tulips in the college yard –
bright as crimson envelopes you filled
with mementoes, drawings, news.
Hurrying back from the post-room –
a student in daps and my own world –
and rashly tearing open what you’d sent,
I had to stop beside those vivid beds:
breeze-taken, a lock of your red hair
scattered across those sun-dappled flowers.