Death of a Geordie

You built a garden here
I stood in it a week ago
The flowering of your mind’s eye
Planted here within the earth

The first day of summer, I thought -
Standing in the noon-day sun
Enveloped by these tiny flowers
Powder blue and delicate

To work with the hands is a dying art
Asbestos, soil and ironwork
Clasping strength and tender craft
The pistons of your human heart

Can we pretend it was gravity
That grabbed your legs, and brought you down?
Fetid air that crawled into your cavities
And stole your lungs?

Suddenly – too suddenly
Long shadows shorten summer plots
Too early for your memory
Amidst the blue forget-me-nots