by Julie Boden
Beneath his fingernails, an honest dirt.
Upon his knees, the grime of garden prayer.
With ache of heart and sweat upon his shirt
he fights to pull the bindweed of despair.
He bedded rose and poppy in his day,
retreated to his shed for time alone
but now, he walks down Honeysuckle Way
to think of all the plants that she had grown;
his wife of forty years – Felicity.
‘These days,’ he says, ‘I’m planting Rosemary’.