I heard sounds in the garden, of the little creatures
A few cicadas, skinks, butcher birds, a snake by the woodpile.
The sun hurt my arms, burning like the new past
so I moved to the shade.

I am looking for the friends who knew you
before they join you- what do they know?
Who did they see when they looked at you?
l can't carry this on my own,

I asked the forest, but there were too many
voices. You were a story of footfalls, and hands touching trees
eating berries and wandering.
And I am left wondering.

Are you under my skin? Peel it back, scrape the
tissues away,mop up the blood impatiently.
Gouge away like a crampon that clashed with granite-
There is no summit, no attained prominence.

I dug in the earth and found 6 six potatoes
and realised you will return-ashes to ashes,
earth to earth, if I wait for long enough. For dust.
Happy New Year.

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