In memory of David Best (1952–2021)
I’ve savaged with my fork weed after weed.
My lost hori-hori trowel, if it’s here –
this is my hope – might smilingly appear
again, old friend, from its green dungeon – freed!
It’s heartbreaking to have the sheath alone,
as if shrugged off by death, and not the blade,
surely too bright to leave and lose in shade.
But I forgot: weeds covet all we own,
ruthlessly steal. Their truth, unearthed, is stark.
I haven’t found my trowel. And now it’s dark.
