Ask For Me Tomorrow

                                                           March

Rain spilling down on the edge makes a mockery of my work. This is the open space I chose, a green rectangle opened up, the standard size. I was mowing it just last summer, like the rest of the grounds. Lifting the turf in rhythm now, slap, scraping the surface of the ground, a raw wound opened, the top black as dried blood. Work regularly, cutting through the layers. The first daffodils are out, I pause, look at them briefly, resting a hand on my spade. Examine my calluses, smile at my collection. Rain falls persistently, a month to Easter. The sky cloudy, cumulo-nimbus. Working regularly, a trench of sorts. Like my grandfather in the First World War, his kilt, the lice, rats, duckboards by Verdun. Sinking down, the sticky earth casts shadows, freshly cut, moist loam. Discipline. My working clothes originally dark blue, stained with earth. I am getting hot, going down like a manmade elevator, finger pressed on the button to the basement. Below, the root of all things. And Australia. The space is not required until tomorrow. I like the quiet, time to myself. The space is rising around me, a brown box to contain another. Boxed in. Another pause, looking out at the sky above. The church spire is the only landmark from here. Then my relief comes, time to get out. It’s not as if I am six feet tall. And so I rise, rise to my lunch, my part over.

                                                           June

Sweat. The roses in full bloom: I squirt them for greenfly. Walking around the grounds. Shirt sleeves. The grass grows quickly, I return often to trim the borders encroaching on each other, plants vying with each other to run the place. Last burial in late May, a spot beneath a cherry blossom tree. Sun is warm. From a distance comes the slow bustle of the town, a steady grumble I can afford to ignore here. The River Ness runs fast, cold and deep. River of water of life. Passing me by. Flowers and wreaths on some graves. In my handiwork, I disturbed the earth, opened a door, closed by the minister and then sealed by me. River goes ever on. Slow, hazy day, unusually hot. People lie out on the green banks across the river. Perhaps they are waiting to cross. Maybe they need a ferryman to take them over, maybe I am he. Flowers full of life: bees, pollen, humming. Keep the grounds tidy. Bend to pick up occasional litter. Lunch: cheese and pickle sandwiches. Back to trimming, get the mower started. Begin at one side, continue, circling older gravestones, some sunk and leaning, subsidence. Other heads are leaning, further down. Cutting the long spears of grass, reaching up as if to tickle the sombre grey stones into life. The Day of Judgement. All the chaff shall burn. The grass is ordered now, shortened. Days like grass. The cherry blossom falls. Full bloom.

                                                           September

The leaves keep falling, onto my shoulders, down into the new rectangle I am cutting into the earth. Red, yellow, brown, brown as the earth baked from a long hot summer. Heavy work. Patterns of life, patterns of death. Hearing a baby’s cry, looking up, my hair tousled, filthy, earth on my working clothes. The mother soothes the child, rocks the pram. The river is clear today, sparkling. I return to my haven, cutting the familiar trench, wounding the soil to close over the head of another, keep them shut forever and a day. An apple fallen from a tree, its boughs outstretched near me, an invitation. The wind blows in a gust, the leaves rustle, the green apple rolls over and over. Suddenly I do not like it, it rolls towards me, round and shiny and ominous as a green skull, blank and baleful. It rolls to the edge of my fearful pit, and stops. I knock it with my spade, send it tumbling back. The earth is dry and crumbly, seeming ripe for this particular harvest. Shift and cut. Time for my break, rise from the row now three feet deep, saunter over to a bench for my lunch, corned beef sandwiches. The slight wind is pleasant with the sun, trees rustling. I close my eyes and rest for a moment. Something nudges my foot. An apple returns. Then they all start to fall.

                                                           December

Cold, crisp darkness. The ground is hard, indifferent to sorrow or regret. Frost diamonds sparkling, the whole surface engaged to death, cold and beautiful. I sit on the bench again, late afternoon, sun setting over the river, shining off the pedestrian suspension bridge. The ground has gone to sleep, locked off for the winter, but I ensure it is tidy, free of litter, sweets, mince pie packets. The trees seem dead, conifers silent as Quakers. There are evergreens over by the church, thick and green. No snow, but a hard frost. Sparkles. A child falls and cries, cutting herself on the hardness. Her mother picks her up and takes her away to a world of warm blankets and hot drinks. School is finished today, children leaving for the holidays. Here it is cold, cold. If the ground needs to be opened, it will take a digger. My arms are getting stiff. Mechanical remembrance. Turn of the soil, seedtime and harvest, turnover, regular clockwork, machines rolling on, tick tock. I stand up, feet crunching on the frozen grass. Some apples from the autumn are still there. I walk between the stones, thinking of this lost city of friends. I had the last care of them. This is my own plot in the corner, this is my place, here I’ll stay, for I do like it well. Ask for me tomorrow.