Nothing morbid about remembering our dead

On a road I travel regularly a shrine once appeared of the sort we have all grown used to. There were bunches of ragged flowers in Cellophane wrappers and cuddly toys with cards tied round their necks. As the rain and wind did their work, it looked increasingly like left-over rubbish when the bins had been emptied badly. It was also obvious that to some poor mother and father it was the centre of the universe. As the months passed, freshly planted daffodils sprang from the spot.