Regeneration Elizabeth Wilson Davies Like nuns in purple cowls the violets bloom’ (Rabe’eh) Come Candlemas I rinse my silvered vase veils of tarnish growing on its swirls I polish it with care, as did my mother, not to damage the brittle glass or further wear away the pattern, sensing I might rub my own skin away. Drifts of double snowdrops return to their old haunts, heralding hope or sorrow. They are fragile enough to please me, the first flowers I pick for her vase, white enamelled pearls over petticoats of apple green, while the ones outside surrender to grey mould, collapse, their heads hanging towards the mud. Precocious spikes of finger-high crocuses flaunt themselves, egg yolk gold all too glossy for this vase. I prefer less thrusting flowers, the watchful pale yellow primroses and unscented dog violets. I wait for a pot of my mother’s violets to bloom, roots transported from house to house. Her viola oderata, the powdery scent of violet creams, their perfumed grace notes rise then fade, then rise again. The vase has longed all year for this embrace. 42