Much Missed



She’s been gone for twenty years now
And yet rye sourdough rises
In the warmth of her kitchen
The book of common prayer
Still stands there
Dour, leathern, incongruous,
Between the well thumbed tomes of cookery
And needlecraft
I still find small handmade pouches
Linen filled with: love, lavender,
Mint, thyme and sometimes a mothball
Amongst the softer flotsam of her years
I repainted the kitchen door frame
With some sadness
The patina left by her walking stick is lost,
To all but memory
Yet I didn’t remove the brass ring
I may need it myself.


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