poem i

The Gardener

It wasn’t hard to see you’d force the crack –
that thread concealed a faultline.
Your spade tore earth that spilled in clods and powder
as underfoot all shuddered.

You stayed there, digging. I cycled away
and winter had worn the leaves, you can’t imagine
a road so damp with age.  Or how he said,
The rain must be bad, when I got in.

This morning I dug a hole for our years
in the garden, among the stones where no roots grow.
The fork struck each one like a broken bell.
Worms moved the earth like fingers.

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