There’s a native fuchsia
growing fiercely in the garden
where we buried her – near the compost heap
nearly eight years ago.
The mattock was leaning by the back door
when I brought her home.
‘I’ve dug the hole.
I won’t come down…
if you don’t mind? ‘
I can still see the old towel
that covered her soft grey fur
and the pink petals
you’d scattered at the bottom of the hole.
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