(For Mum)
I love gardening, you said.
I know, I remember you knee deep
in damp autumns, drizzly praying into
beds of clogged earth;
Trowelling at weeds till the light
going, went, and brought you in
to tea, sherry, and Evening Primrose.
I love gardening, you said.
I know, and you told me why;
a gardener always looks forward, you said,
to another day, another season,
that next patch of clear sky
and there to work in.
That’s why, you said;
as you toiled towards your next tomorrow
— until that next winter came,
and so quickly, took you.
