We left her in the field
No longer farmed
Going back to woodland
Where summer days
Are weighted with the past
And where she dreamed
Of picking blackberries
As she lay dying.
The unfarmed field
A fitting patch of earth
For ashes,
Briars scraping arcs
Against the empty barn
Where hitches and tethers
For beasts and men decay
On rusting nails in shadow.
Season by season
Memory like barn boards
Long gone gray but standing
In the field no longer farmed
Scatter me and leave us
In her dream
Picking blackberries
Going back to woodland.
