A morning came when all the ditches
Lay drying and cluttered with lupins
In the summer sun. You and I, we
Kept their colours contained so carefully
Every day then, at the edges of
Lawns mowed fretfully from green to brown
Year after year. Oh, Julys were rote.
Sometimes now I look out the window
To see your daughter push a mower
Over where the lupins grew. I ask,
Regularly, why she cuts them down.
Your memory is a scythe, she says.