The withered stalks of a long-dead spray
Choked by the rampant growth of summer hay
Drooping in a cracked dry jar that once held jam
Are all that remains to remind you where I am

Below, the audacious worms in sensuous play
Caress the nether regions from which you shied away
And, at my head, your inscribed loss
Is softened now by gentle, creeping moss

While, up above and smiling, sit I
Transformed to Love, but wondering why
The council’s mowing regime’s so lax …..
Wasn’t that covered by my Council Tax?