Hoeing Stones

Standing hoeing garden stones Eyes awash with tears As memories flood back from More than sixty years, To the little village churchyard For which my dad cared And which duty I, as a child, So very unwillingly shared. He dug the graves, cut the grass Scything carefully around Each sheared and flower strewn Humped burial mound. All the paths were of loose stone Which, after ever spring self seed, Just attracted and harboured Endless stretches of weed, Each year it was my job To shim and hoe them clean So that those spick and span paths Matched his carefully mown green. I was a spoiled, lazy, idle child Complaining every single year But dad was quietly firm in spite Of my every tantrum and tear. Now he comes gently back to mind As I hoe my stones, laid for easy care. Just for a while it’s the old churchyard And we are both back there. Good job done he says As we stand side by side And we both inspect that path And my chest swells with pride. And now I stand here Leaning on my garden hoe Thinking of things I wish I’d said All those many years ago. But the past is the past And we both know it’s for the best That I wish his memory goodbye And let him slip gently back to rest.