WHOSE WILL BE DONE?
Between the blades of dewy grass
Mingle the particles of fresh dust
Their colour bleached to grey.
A bird descends and pecks for food,
Finding nothing it ascends today
Climbs higher than the trees, away.
Weeks go by without a soul
Tending the ever growing grass.
I chose that tranquil spot
For them to be blended in the soil
That many years before received
The bleached grey dust of her lover.
The years will effectively combine
Them in the soils embrace and then
She will be lost, untraceable,
Indistinguishable, shall become one.
My parent's will be done.
© Allen Ansell 2025
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