Threads of string that straddle the ground and
weather blistered wood signpost she has gone.
Brambles stalk the grass which rises in tufts,
and leaves lie in a patch work of compression.
Her fingers which lingered on once favoured flora
left strands of twine to remind us she was here.
Her glass house with moss forced fractures
shelters the tethered corpses of cucumbers.
Sweet peas stand skeletal in the solid soil
and ants leak from nests like seeping sores.
The rusting roses hoped it was just a rumour as
their green-brown dead-heads turn black and fall.
In the grieving garden weeds with pregnant
pods grate with gratitude now she has gone.
No more forks, secateurs, spades, or shears as
she lies in shadow below the bulbs and tubers.