Spring has arrived here again;
Growing its colours across
The quilted countries of your truth,
Finding in each waxing moment
Fresh fertility, to form anew
The atlas of familiar fields.
Fields, where you had grown,
Enduring many seasons of time’s pulse.
Learning as you grew,
That even here, where in the mist
Of last November’s thin grey rain
We left your winter mound unmade
Spring would return; to conjure
From your fading flesh
The irony of birth.

Growing from your final bed
The transmuted beauty
Of posthumous flowers.

© James Rainsford 2010