My neighbour had a dislike of crocuses,
though he loved gardening. The leaves

were a mess; hung about too long,
he said, after flowering.

His wife died of a lingering illness:
he’d loved her, as far as I could see,

brought heart-shaped stones from the beach,
painted them white, propped them against the house.

He went to pieces a bit, afterwards,
rehomed his rescue animals,

found a flat in town with no garden.
I’d still see him, now and then,

hanging around outside the bookie’s;
he’d ask after my cats, my rock plants.

A lesser man, but still a wit,
edged like the green blades that break

winter ground. He’d a way to go, yet,
to ruin the leavings of his life.

In the court report, his age surprised me:
I’d have guessed him ten years older.

So much life left, so little point;
and every spring, they come back.

It’s true they die hard and untidy,
but John, one could pardon so much

for those few days when sun
opens them full, their given time.