i.m. Ian Jones
There is no right age to die – or way to mourn.
As I thought of him, the small bush I could see
from the desk I wrote at – a plant whose name
we had forgotten, lost – was burgeoning:
its leaves greening, swelling, as spring, despite
that day’s north westerly, took hold. In time –
which he no longer had or had in
profligate abundance – an array
of delicate pink and white flowers would bloom.