She was this garden’s enchantress,
casting spells everywhere.
The old cat followed at her feet as she
coaxed the aquilegias from the shadows,
urged shy alliums to stand up and take a bow;
gently chided overweening roses,
and always with a kind word
for the humble primroses and
the forget-me-nots.
Her mottled fingers made magic – each year
conjuring a chorus to the sun’s ancient summons.
It is overcast, but the sun is always there –
the only deity that needs neither scripture
nor ceremony, neither priest nor
obsequious praise – just this handmaiden
working in her garden, who is now
at rest in her urn among the tulips
and waiting, I hope, for me.