She loved the mountain ash that flowered above the garden,
outside my bedroom window – the tiny four-square garden
that they weeded, tended, watered through my childhood
after lunch on Sundays, trimming privet, planting wallflowers;
then one year I came home and the patch of garden
had grown smaller, meaner, it had shrunk like childhood,
the fence and privet hedge were gone, and there instead
was a little low wall behind which the wallflowers
and mountain ash looked foolish … The bright seed packs of
childhood
are gone now, there are brochures for old people's homes,
the mountain ash has gone too, the stump is dead
and 'Next spring I'll see about the garden,' I say mildly
to the old woman who lives here, a widow, and the fox that
roams
through waist-high grasses as she watches from the window,
staring wildly.
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