Mowing
How dare you go, leaving me
alone to do the mowing?
You used to dig the plantains
out by hand and rake the moss
but after you went I called in
a firm to weed and feed the lawn.
It is green and even now,
clear of buttercups and daisies.
I start at the outside mowing in
until there is only a thin rectangle left.
Then that too is smooth, flat
as the oblong of your grave.
When I am gone
I want to finish in a sacred space,
not in a municipal cemetery;
an acre that is more than just a place
overwatered by tears of misery.
One that shows the world a happier face
enriched with centuries of history.
Crematoria grow only funeral wreaths,
mowed lawns with granulated bones beneath.
I want smart women in stiletto heels
to totter on my plot to see the bride
and chuck confetti while children kneel
to make their fragile daisy chains beside
my headstone, where teenagers conceal
illicit cans of lager drunk outside.
So that my body there is just another layer
in the geology of hope and prayer.
Feature Image: Daniele Idini