'The Wrong Flowers, poem' by Brenda Cook

I am wanting to be me

When I was small

and picking the wrong flowers.

I thought I was doing no harm


‘Stop picking, you’re on private land’


said my dad.


’I’d rather I told you than them

Because their voices are sharp’.


The sharper voices

Came from the people

From the other side

Of where I was living.

They owned the land

They had rights to tell me

But my dad thought I shouldn’t give them the chance

It would upset my lessons and it would put me back

Stop me getting on


But I never got anywhere, anyway,

There were flowers on the window sill at school

and my school days felt

Like I’d always been picking the wrong flowers.