Graveside Visit — III

Beyond pain, but not beyond knowledge,
you dwell beneath and above cineraria,
white rose, camellia. We trim the grass
with shears, (flesh-grass with time's shears),
pluck out the star-shaped weed
cradling a crystal drop. Walking away,
my mother does not need my arm
so much as in the first two years,
but it's companionable like this.
We drive to the Heads where we'll tread
sand, contemplate a strait of blue light
linking, severing.