I saw a man once, reading to a headstone
in a fawn gilet. As the sun streamed
through the trees onto his head,
daffodils blew their trumpets at his feet.
I saw a grave a few weeks ago, a small one
near Lake Windermere it said; Zoë
born a day, died a day.
The same day. It said 1966.
I wish sometimes I had a grave,
I’d brush away the fallen leaves
and stand and read you fairy tales
of dolphins and hot air balloons.
One year I bought a teddy,
to attach to your tree
I found a piece of cord
and tied it round its neck.
A heavy tear fell in a straight assent,
as you too were tied
with a piece of cord
around your neck.