He greets me with his usual half-salute
as I approach the summit of the hill.
It's winter, but he's in a linen suit,
the sort he wore before becoming ill
and less inclined to leave the bungalow
he used to share with Wynn until her death
one hazy day in June. He smiles. "Hello!"
I call, "Hi Grandad!", slightly out of breath
from climbing and from carrying the things
he asked for while in hospital: a bowl
of ice cream and his dressing gown, with strings
for decency. We sit and watch a foal
gambolling with her mother, roan and spry;
up here we needn't think about the ward.
I love the grassy slopes and shifting sky.
Up here, we must be closer to the Lord
or what it is that brings us to this place
so I can grant his last requests again
and see the happiness upon his face
as he surveys the homeland, fern and fen.