You should have been buried here
amongst the beans, the peas, the potatoes,
the rhubarb, spearmint and lavender,
the rose buds of hot afternoons
and the berries of winter cold,
in the land that you cultivated,
weeding and planting and hoeing
in the evenings long shadows of Spring.
Instead your ashes were spread
several miles from a desolate home,
left alone,
scattered on lawns and concrete
amid roses that nobody loves.
I would leave you posies of pansies
picked from your overgrown beds
where so little you planted survives
– if i was sure where you are
The Dreaming Path 