Floral line drawing with daisy and peony blooms

The market came in at half three and I still have the daisies on my hands. Ada from the stall by the loading bay sent a whole crate back because the stems had gone soft at the neck, so she made me sort every bloom by hand under the sodium lamps, tossing the bruised ones into the bin with the peony heads that never opened. You'd have laughed. I counted forty-one peonies before I stopped, and every one was the colour of your old school cardigan.

There's a rhythm to the night floor that I've never managed to explain to Dad. The lorries reverse with their beepers going, the kettle in the back office never quite boils, and somewhere past four the whole city goes quiet except for the hiss of the misters. I stacked the dahlias last, the heavy ones with petals like cut paper, and I thought about how you used to draw flowers on the back of my maths homework, always stems first, always leaves like little boats.

Last night I found a sprig of white blossom caught in the wire of a trolley, five petals each, no bigger than a fingernail. I kept it. I pressed it inside my notebook, which is where I am writing this from, perched on an upturned crate while the sky goes blue at the edges over the car park.

Ada says the market shuts for good in March. Think about coming home for that. Bring the sketchbook.

Love, Tom