Intestate

In freshly ploughed soil;
a silent seedling unfolds itself
like a butterfly.

You loved the long days,
free of shadows and time
to walk along yellow-headed ditches,
searching for the sun.

And always home by evening
to put the hens in, safe
from prowling foxes.

I see you still,
under the haze of a spring coloured sky,
hands immersed in soap,
twilight-framed
in the kitchen window.

Cracked now, patterned
in clinging green, stained
with the dirt and dust
of three long winters.

Three cows died,
the first year.

By the second, green-vined embraces
snuffed out softly,
the scent of roses.


Nature awakens
and reclaims.