St. Swithin's Day

She would have been twenty eight

today.

I felt some guilt at the overgrown

grave, the weeds and long grass.

Already someone else has laid a small

bouquet.

I get the tools from the car

and trim and cut in the still

summer silence.

I arrange the flowers as best I can

asking her to help me, she knows

what I’m like. I place the soft toy between

the two bouquets, hazarding at symmetry.

Only ten when we lost her.

Standing back at last the work all done

I wait for some sort of spiritual message.

Nothing.

I look for some sign in the clouds,

maybe a rustle in the trees.

Nothing.

Nothing.

On the drive back I remember

as I stood on her grave cutting

grass, pulling weeds:

“Hurry up Dad, you weigh a ton!”

and the flicking of her hair out of her

eyes, head thrown back

that cheeky mischievous grin

and realise she was with me all the time.