'
A small procession winds from the walled garden, past high laurel hedges towards the woodland that she loved. I only knew her for a short while. We usually met at private views, occasionally in the shops of the small coastal town, or, once or twice, as two heads bobbing in the sea.
coppiced woods
filtered sun alive
with bees
After recuperating from a minor breakdown, she’d asked me to help fix up her small studio in the town. We laughed a lot, improvised curtains to cover up junk, sloshed paint about, drank wine. Facets of her hidden personality emerged. A slightly wicked sense of humour, compassion, lightness, a love of colour. Unwanted visitors arrived, slightly drunk, she handled them with kindness and love, gently ushering them on their way.
scattering
her ashes wind
in our direction
Her death was sudden and unexpected. We’d seen her just before on a country lane near our house, and stopped for a chat. A sunny day full of promise, two cars parked side by side, swallows shrilling overhead.
suspended in shade
each pin point of light
a hoverfly
Now, after the funeral, amongst the trees she loved, a few Friends holding hands. We stand silent but for the sound of birds, holding her gently, linking thoughts.
in hazel quivering
a flat web holds
a film of ash
.
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