The golden autumn of your death
looms large in my memory of this year.
The drive through the hills.
The gathering dread of the sight of you - fading.
Relief at the welcoming flicker of recognition.
Your stricken shamble -
The baby smell of your naked head.
The shuffle to the garden.
We stand, warming our backs in the waning sunlight
as it struggles to earth
through the forest that is your sanctuary.
We play with the hens.
I say to you - 'Catch him',
You say - "City mouse doesn't know the difference
between a 'she' and a 'he' chook!"
We laugh together
For the last time.
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