I saw her last week
bundled into a wheelchair
pushed around by her
daughter’s tongue.
She is past tense now
with apron and overcooked
potatoes left in the ceiling.
Husband used to go searching
for worms while the soil lay in wait.
Her hedge was the biggest
in the avenue. Keeping the
noses out, her voice in.
Those glasses that sat
on the bridge, watching
the world go by like some
toll gate man. She herself
with the busiest pupils around.
Now she sits on the spindles
being spun into the next life.