We should dance, he said, as she passed,
Dropping the shovel with one hand, taking
His hat with the other, sun bleached
And straw weaved, but there’s no music,
She answered, but there’s no one watching,
He replied to the crimson cheeks
Of her porcelain face, neath a crimson bonnet
And he reached for her hand and his arm
Took her waste and his nose found her scent
And her skirts began to rustle and the cords
Coursed through the corset and the branches
Behind them turned movement into melody,
For a moment, in the sunshine, in a park,
On a Monday in May while he watched her
And wondered how long she would stay,
I won’t always be a gardener, he whispered
To the curve of her neck, to the twist of her ear,
To his work weary hands, battered and bruised,
To the part of him who longed for a wife,
But I will always be a widow, she said to herself,
As she smiled and left his hold, and the trees
Stopped their singing and the man picked his shovel,
This stranger, this gardener, this man who heard music,
This man who brought beauty to life, but the bonnet
That she wore was her husband’s favourite,
The dress, the last gift he gave, so she walked off
Alone, in the park, on a Monday, with her grief,
Which was all she had left.
All words and pictures by Damien B. Donnelly