Teen Cusp: 4
A jug of lemon squash, more
digging. The horse died all by itself.
Dad said that can happen and it did –
near the corner of the wash-house
where Maisie shifts the soil
away from the edge, spreading it over
an asparagus bed because there's none
left. Dad says fresh dirt will resurrect
our greens. The word sounds too human
but I smile and so does Maisie, knowing
we can tell someone who will understand
Dad's clever, although he can't write
a shopping list. Mum does that
Sunday night, come Monday morning
rides the Raleigh with the basket
instead of our horse. Like a northerly
after runaway grass, Mum moves
earth nearer to heaven when she
chooses the ice-cream with purple swirls.
We can have that after the funeral.
I've made up this poem to say.