Twenty k from somewhere no longer there,
at least, that is, not the place it once was,
in a garden a heart-fall from Eden,
a comely lass. Well, that’s one summation.
Her photo is peppered with age. With care
her image has outlived her. Now, moss
would smudge her name if any stone stood ten
decades, two wars, three regimes. Elation
and none of that, she’s a frayed thread. A glare
on the sodden mound behind her infers
at earth’s roll through space, a mill wheel grinding.
Face on a postcard, is grandfather there,
a bookmark, now unnamed in old papers?
He is just an old spark still igniting.
