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by Catherine Owen

I sit and watch the garden die

 

I sit and watch the garden die

Late September morning

It’s simple really to do little

But think of death

That so much never even ripened

All that ready imagery

Thinking how long I may have

To wait to join him in the land of ashes

With no consolation of seeing his beauty once more

Of making our own particular music

Is not a happy pastime

But one I am unable to escape

Because that’s the way it is

When one choice leads to a grave

The other to a decision to persist.

So I couldn’t miss him more

Or know this means less

Than bringing in what is left

Against the cold.