Collaboration
We sometimes went together.
She’d lead the way with snowdrops
or early daffodils,
the orange-centred double ones
he liked the best.
Later there’d be rosebuds,
held in time to that June day he’d
led her down the aisle.
Black veiled she followed him again
five decades on.
Though we went together
I trailed after, with bucket, brush and
bottleful of bleach,
to where a sweeping yew blots out
the bloodless sun.
Under her direction
the green-slimed slab was scoured,
each letter traced
with bristled care so no loose paint
was stripped away.
The last few inches
were left blank, blanched stainless
by the scrubbing,
until the mason’s chisel would mark
the allotted date.
They’re back together,
side by side, spanning stone inscribed
as she laid down.
Beloved wife of the above.
No room for more.