Lark Rise Over the Ridge

At his head, I lay wallflowers
from my garden. He used
to bring me runner-beans,
marrows, sprouts and pumpkins,
from his; leave them at my back door;

a neighbour of mine, till recently.
Smile to myself, as I think
how ironic it is; my plot, booked
years ago, lies at his feet.

From a field, by the railings –
hear a newborn lamb bleat. My eyes
drawn to lee of the ridge; no finer
resting place than this, amongst
the hills I grew up, and old in.

Hills that need no consecration;
the song of the skylark as it trills,
as it sings, as it rises, has already
seen to that, and the mewling
of a Red Kite to its mate.

Maybe read a poem or two at my passing,
but the keen east wind shall be my homily.
Queen Anne’s lace, and purple vetch,
the only altar flowers I’ll need.

And if you should find the time
to come and visit – maybe sit a while
and reflect in the sunshine. Don’t bring
me tears. Only know, I’ve found
my heaven on earth – right here.