Sunday, 24 April 2016

April Poems 2016/24


Five silver spoons
in a velvet-lined box
each topped with an apostle
a gift from my grandmother
on my parents' wedding day.
My sister tagged them with a post-it note
on her visit to our father's house
the day after pneumonia took him
changed her mind when she saw one missing.
It wasn't just the spoons;
she marked up the silverware, the crystal,
the drop-leaf table with the William Morris carving;
bagged the money in the top-left drawer and said:
Let's not bother with a headstone.
When the house sold I cleared his garden.
Cut down my mother's roses,
his dahlias, the wisteria I planted when I was a child;
bagged up the compost heap
(it was too good to waste)
and right at the bottom, bright from being under the earth
was the missing apostle.
My father's chuckle from the grave
and the robin he fed with garden worms
alighted on the garden spade.

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