After Yoshida
1. Emaciated, in the postage-stamp courtyard of a hotel, behind the bars of a first-floor terrace, her clenched buds refuse to bloom. She pushes two spindle arms, cruciform, reaching for the small patch of sky, and crepe-paper shapes explode.
2. Chided, a child trying not to cry. Accidental and uneven, tiny salmon flowers roll down each young limb, the last, holding on tight, hangs pendulous.
3. They jostle greedily under the first full flowering of pastel. The Japanese take photographs. They are not tourists. The man in the baseball cap, the woman in the kimono, the child with the rucksack are.
4. Her foamy, pink, pom-poms shiver. Sake breath. A pulled satin blouse over soft breasts.
5. Behind the sign that says, 'Do not sit under the trees’ and the sign that says, ‘Do not touch the blossoms', the people un-crinkle their green tarpaulin below the mobile phone mast. Joy-filled, they unwrap their bento boxes.
6. They have crept up the hill on gnarled, mahogany knees. Knobbly elbows make space. Froths of white mark their ascent.
7. Along the river bank, the delicate tick of lantern ribbons, an under-lit glow of strawberry heads bending down to kiss the water. Teenage boys take selfies.
8. Rude birds laugh in the trees. Pale petals float onto the wooden grave markers, drift into the gutters. The feet of relatives bringing water for the thirsty dead bruise and slide them to brown.
Angeline Tyler is new to writing and even newer to Flash but is thoroughly enjoying both. She lives between Hereford and London.
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