That year. That autumn

            when everything changed

            and we carried on

            took each day

            did what we had to do

            slept the sleep

            of the exhausted

            hoped not to dream.

            Rob took his grief out

            on the hazel wood – to the

            ancient woodland

            where the dormice hide

            and breed

            leave shells with perfect holes.

            That autumn he put in

            a gate from the garden

            made a path

            hacked through brush

            and brambles

            took care to leave

            the rowan.

            Along and down

            following the contour

            of the hill then up

            to meet the drove track.

            Went out with mattock

            spade and axe, built steps

            edged with fence posts

            sawn to size.

            He hardly spoke

            came in for soup and cheese

            went out again

            returned to shower

            eat and sleep.

            A week it took him

            and on the day we all

            came to scatter

            say our last goodbyes

            there were a few who

            understood

            who went through

            the garden gate

            walked through the

            wood

            took in the silence

            that’s always there

            disturbed only by

            dogs or deer

            the rustlings of

            small mammals

            the harsh jeering of a jay.

            In Spring the scent

            of bluebells overwhelms.