And the Weary Are at Rest
poems by Andrew Taylor

"For the Dead"

Time is no healer. I think of you,
your enjoyment at early evening light.
Views to the mountain, or into the garden
cultivated like a picture, you directing.
Padded envelopes after visits by rail.
Difficult walks to country pubs, curry runs
in northern towns. No resting place. I’d like
somewhere to visit, place flowers. Perhaps
blossom landing is memorial enough. In mind
at the oddest of times: a timetable scattered
in a rain-soaked gutter, a view of fully-laden
fields or feeling like an afterthought.
Will there ever be an end to this?