For Glenn, who always wanted me to write...

I sit beside you, too late, not knowing what to say.

I hear the sounds you must have heard; The birds chattering, the babbling stream, the proud cocks crowing.

It’s tempting to see signs around me. Are you in the dragonfly that alights in front of me? The dog who checks on my wellbeing?

The clouds shift, and the heat builds. To move is exhausting, but to be still is to become a feast.

I walk through the gardens you made, inhabiting the spaces you created, like a hand-me-down set of clothes. Familiar, comforting, but slightly ill-fitting.
They were not made for me, but I recognise them.

Here, you must notice everything. The ornate end pieces, and the rot in the frame.

In the end, we are all ants of different stature.

Later, I sit in the shade you made for your grand-children. Your last act of building.

You found the cooling breeze.