I find myself standing in the garden
among familiars: pink and yellow roses;
an anniversary bird-bath now wrapped in moss;
the stone-grey football that gathers water
and wheezes like an old man. On the ridged path
loose soil shifts between my toes.
I reach over the back fence, unbolt the gate,
sidestep the fat blackcurrant bush
and weave through avenues of runner beans.
In the heat of the greenhouse, time breathes
slowly, the air heavy as tomatoes;
the same air that hung about your hands.
I make an inventory: cracked flowerpots;
radio components awaiting reincarnation;
spilt seeds still clinging to dreams of geraniums.
I close the door. The sun stays inside, dozing.
In the shade of the laburnum your collection of rain
is brimming again. I deliver it. It keeps returning.