Leaving behind my nan’s
I find the garden gate has its own
weathered patina and that
the grass has stained my pumps.
Under giant umbrella plants
my childhood was nettle green,
moss stippled stones rested
at the nimble river’s edge,
beneath, a life swarmed darkly
oblivious to verdant light,
I rub the rock, finger tip-green,
my prints resemble a leaf’s veins
a connected life-force,
I see how the tall trees hold up the sky
with their birchen arms, while below,
a gentle dock leaf soothes me.
I hold a buttercup under your chin,
you love butter,
all the same,
you are not green.