Grief
I wasn’t in, so she left me a note.
Each word a tangle of broken ends, some oddly linked
to the next with a ghost trail of ink
from her rose-gold marbled fountain pen,
a rare indulgence she’d bought herself.
I think I’m about finished,
the note began. Typical of her, that
starting at the end, I mean. As if no-one
could be interested in what went before.
You’ll find I’ve left a heap of roots in the barrow
bindweed and ground elder, mostly.
You’ll want to burn them, I expect, but
whatever you do, don’t put them in the compost.
I nail her words to the garden fence
and grief unmoors me.
Writing has always been part of Helen Frances‘ life, mostly on nature and philosophical themes. She lives in Somerset on the side of a hill, with views across aeons of geological history where small villages squat like tents at a festival.