Cutting back

A storm coming, but
teeth gritted, he slashes back the sweetness
of the yesterday-today-and-tomorrow border
between the neighbours’ house and his,
before it grows too tall, and dwarfs him.

A cool rain falls, forgives,
yet still his scythe arcs against the green.
Soft purple and white petals pile at his feet,
reminding him of all that will never return.

But he cannot destroy the fragrance,
it lingers like the smell of her hair,
the sound of her voice, calling ‘daddy, daddy.’

as he walked away,
refusing her.

5.11