Born of the earth
He showed me how to use a trowel,
eager shadow of me, belt high.
The ancient wood of the handle
worn, parched to splitting,
ginger rust on the tang
black earth on the blade.
I dropped seed after seed
into individual graves.
With a squeeze or two of fine mist
I tamped down the soil,
soft hands reverend as in prayer
crumbs of loam flaking my fingers.
It filled me with wonder and hope
the way life found the light.
At his graveside I stood patiently
as the tributes and flowers faded,
I stood waiting in hope of seeing
the pink shoots of his palms.
Andy lives and works in South East London. He has been published in print and online including; Obsessed with Pipework, Marble, Green Ink, Worktown Words, Snakeskin, The Ekphrastic Review and Foxglove Journal.