Third anniversary

Louise Carson

And even after six hard frosty nights,

dry standing corn still sings with insect life.

The squirrel jerks its tail, clucks my approach,

relayed by blue jay cry and thudding grouse.

Reflecting colour up, the fallen leaves

(it’s not autumn unless I mention these),

the fallen leaves complete my metaphor:

feet grind them into finest mould.

Where is she now that time, time’s her betrayed?

The address in my hand’s too small to read.

By morning’s side then, somewhere near a farm.

In the crypt, other women keep her warm.

Did I, do I ever, visit her grave?

My heart her grave, I walk there every day.