a wide electric gate to remove your wood

workshop from Jan’s sight. the dog

barked often. space for two cars,

sometimes cars. always the old motorbike

and the multiple trophies. a windsurf board.

 

a dark door to the cleaner house and, before

everything else, a concave Optimist reclined

on the wall exhibits their medals and them –

a couple of photographs. the stairs, up, green

and white ceramic triangles. the spiders.

 

we could follow up the steps, consider the tall

plant which will soon challenge the angled

skylight. we could rush to the garden door,

meet the ageing olivera by the four mosaics

of the seasons. remember the eucaliptus there.

 

the wood hut, the legs you built to lift it

from the grass, also gone. sitting on its limited

veranda, you told me what to do with you –

at the back of the house, in the darker garden,

your ashes seep the roots of my pine tree, pi.