The God of Allotments
were lovers for forty years.
Now you are dead.
Here on the allotment, others
will grow the scarlet runners, loving their blossom,
Why did we keep it a secret?
Guilt at reneging on vows?
Someone is threading up silver CDs in a bid to
frighten the birds.
“mirrors for pigeons,” you’d say.
don’t even know if they scattered your ashes or
Remember our shed – how we’d pretend
be sorting out seeds and the door would casually
times I thought the walls themselves would collapse.
Shall I go down to our pond?
That very last time it was covered in scum.
You said it was hot, kept coughing-
Were you dying and I didn’t know?
There’s no-one to talk to now, about you.
Only the god of allotments,
he is in.
always thought there’d be time for us –
least for mingling our dust together,
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