I splice the hillock of soil.
Deranged worker-ants scramble
across her headstone
their rhythms disrupted, beats broken.
They must move on, build a new colony.
My hands flatten the ground, robe it in grass.
Plant primroses, grave-dirt under my nails
drawing closer.

Tractor-mud oozes
across the road. Splatters
a minibus full of Ukrainian pickers.
Gangmasters run the potato harvest
now no locals will bow low
to dig England's buried treasure.

The kissing gate shuts behind me.
Kestrels wheel in the sky
above my old home.
Summer guests have fled.
I'm already on my way,
walking along a street,
red earth stuck to my soul.