Second viewing

They waited weeks before separating,
until after the first frost.

And in that time nothing much happened,
except the air was unusually still,
and for a few short days at least
there was a late flourish of summer
in which the garden looked lovelier than ever.

Then all of a rush they were gone.


‘Beautiful!’ She said on second viewing.

The agent checked his phone.

‘Like an old postcard,’ she said,
carefully closing the gate behind her.
‘Strange, but I didn’t really notice it before.’

She turned to take a last look.

A sudden gust blew up from somewhere,
causing the few remaining petals
on a single white rose
to drop, like snowflakes,
on the ground below.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

The Winter Garden

I have known the passing of loved ones
and the passing by of one since longed for, 

felt the touch on fingertips
of lips that can be kissed no more;

touched with those same fingertips,
a photograph, a golden ring,

but I have never known a Winter garden
that did not hold the thought of Spring,

’til now.