A Kind of Grieving

Pour myself into gardening
this morning...chores
to be seen to. A tree
to be pruned – weeds
to be given the boot,
cabbage seeds to sow
and a meadow to mow,
peace of mind to be
reclaimed amidst
a kind of grieving;
the only way.

Bulbs – rotting
where they hang
in the potting shed,
open bags of John Innes
Number Three spill out
on a leaf-strewn floor;
empty seed trays
stacked – face down
on a rickety wooden bench,
one inside the other,
and I wonder why
he doesn’t call.