Gardening in the graveyard

‘So few are lucky enough to naturally catch alight.’

At this point I round things off
as the Gardener and I have been sitting for quite some time,
and I have thermos cramp in my left hand.

As I stand up, the Gardener prepares to speak,
working his Gardener hands into base elements, beginning

I suspect, right back, further than crustaceous time, perhaps even
at the moment of failure to begin in the first place,

and the frustrated sigh that trembled it all into one, mega,
abominable error of speechlessness.

He says:

‘If you permit such things, I’ll put what I think
you have just said into my
own words.’

‘Oh,’ I say, giving out a little smile, ‘That’s a good one.’

The Gardener-look I get tells me
it’s time to leave – feeling I’ve already outstayed my welcome.
‘Which way do I go from here?’ I say

seeing as I can leave by two routes, one that leads up to a nick
of light through the trees in the graveyard,

and another that leads down to a dark dot, hub of a burglary
happening in the far off distance.

‘Right up to the end we Gardeners like to leave that in the
hands of the individual executor – be my guest.’

He says, trailing off into the ambiguous
shuffle of a gardening glove.

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