I’m no expert – but I can find the perfect ring
Of grey, where the daylight-moon of a jam jar base
Left its watermark, to the northeast region of her sky.
Authenticated: it was hers, alright,
As sure as the paper is rough, as she was rough;
As sure as it smells of oak.
I can make out, through failing eyes, the highlights
Of a hedgerow, with dark lines, branches black;
Fenced out, some bold outlines in residual ink,
And a stone wall which dissolves as
Whole pieces were stolen over years, or washed with rain
As it recedes to an inexact distance;
I am no expert on this. But I knew her, once.
I see an untrained hand but a good sense at least
Of the colours, the movement of those arthritic trees
Bearing still that element of green; and yet
It is not entirely coloured. To the northwest corner
Areas of field are not remembered; leaves are misplaced;
Sadly, a good amount of view is washed out;
And the sky,
Like all blue things, fades to white.
I wrote this for my college publication, The Dial, back when I was still at university all of nine months ago. I am glad to say that it is based on no relative of mine; although the subject matter is so delicately tragic that I can barely bring myself to read it anymore.