All Saints

Or, Toussaint here in France, is an important mark in the calendar. The florists, garden centres, markets and super-markets are stuffed with giant pots of pink, orange, white and lilac chrysanthemums, which will then appear on graves all over the country.
Once, on a flight back to the UK, I saw masses of the blooms: an oasis of tiny round spots of bright colour amongst pale straw colour and brown autumn-bare vine fields.
Today, we took the dogs up a small lane to raid a neglected pomegranate tree. We walked past the derelict summer house I had noticed and photographed before.
Somebody had placed a solitary potted white chrysanthemum on the centre of the ancient concrete table under the broken veranda where Papy, Mamy, or both must have once sat after working in the vines, or tending the now-overgrown garden.

I liked the idea that the plant was there rather than on their grave in the municipal graveyard. Hopefully their spirits are still gardening and sitting watching the sun go down.