Evening soft Autumn light;
the year’s foliage
becoming humus,
new soil;
smell of decomposition:
mossy,
next year's fertility;
you standing,
foot on shovel, king of ridges;
colour of ripeness
heading towards rot;
unknown then
your lungs discolouring,
hardening
as Winter hardens.
Today, standing
in dank November
preparing the soil
for next year's growth
with your face
but older now
than you ever were,
thinner;
watching the years pass
in tides of growth:
the relentless march
of seasons pulling
me after you;
seeing the soil
as home.
