Your paintings are still on the wall.
Fairy tale paintings of sky and sea.
White houses on a verdant hill and
on the sill, geraniums crouching,
bolshie red and scentless. They slash the
gentle blue of evening sky to ribbons.
Each spring in belief of immortality.
I take the cuttings from the shed.
Plant them, resurrect the days
we lived in the house on the beautiful hill.
Where geraniums, bolshie red and scentless.
Crouch still, uncaring on the window sill.