Graveside Visit — II

Spring warmth, fatigue
air stretching itself
pressuring skin, earth
reshaping trees
the hair of our heads
as we bend to snip grass
coax out weeds
stapled to dry soil:
swift powdery exits.
To be buried on a hill
by the sea, in an old
disorganised cemetery:
graves marble-majestic
or simple like this —
uneven turf, wild violets.
My mother puts azaleas,
cinerarias, white daisies
impacted with yellow galaxies
beneath the headstone
with space left for her name.
Freesias star the hill,
light billows over us,
clouds ferry a burning white.
Under them, the sea:
flat indeterminate jewel;
a vastness of small movements
towards, away from.