Promise

Before 8am on a June day, and

the elder tree by the road that leads

to the station and away from here

weighs heavy with its cream and scented

flowerheads unpicked

- the scent is on the air today.

You made cordial for the first time this year,

coming home with armfuls of flowers

from beside the brook. 

It tastes pure and of the sweet satisfaction

that comes with anything home made. 

You keep passing trees like this one, 

with their flowers ready to be taken,

but already starting to go over.

What a waste, you think, 

how many bottles of that sweet cordial

they could make. 

In a couple of days the scent won't be like this,

they'll have lost their promise,

but you can't pick them all, you think,

don't be ridiculous,

there's only so much a person can drink.