A Grave

I saw a man once, reading to a headstone

 in a fawn gilet. As the sun streamed

through the trees onto his head,

 daffodils blew their trumpets at his feet.

I saw a grave a few weeks ago, a small one

near Lake Windermere it said; Zoë

born a day, died a day.

The same day. It said 1966.

I wish sometimes I had a grave,

I’d brush away the fallen leaves

and stand and read you fairy tales

of dolphins and hot air balloons.

One year I bought a teddy,

to attach to your tree

I found a piece of cord

and tied it round its neck.

A heavy tear fell in a straight assent,

as you too were tied

with a piece of cord

around your neck.