The Gardener
written by: JPK
She came each Saturday at half past nine.
The girls, when they were little, would look out
and shout to let me know.
I had to stop them watching
from the bedroom window,
wanting to wave.
In rain or snow, she’d only stay
for long enough to say a prayer beside the grave,
Then leave reluctantly.
But in the spring she brought her gardening tools,
planted bulbs and trimmed the grass
to let the flowers poke through.
Crocus in the spring, summer allium,
a hundred others that
I couldn’t name.
But always colours.
Sharp primaries or pastel hues,
covering the earth like a child’s quilt.
She missed a week, then two,
then came one final time to stay
and lie beneath her garden.
The flowers have wilted. Winter’s here,
hardening the earth, painting it white.
In the spring new colours will show through
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