"Police. You haven't heard, then?"
A pause takes breath. "There's been a body found."

The two stand burly, gentle at the gate.
Here, bones clean over in a shifting ground
Where deep medicinal roots are intertwined,
Thrushes leave picks of shell on the back sill.
Though days confuse and motive works awry
Leaves measure out some strength; the roses
Cluster forgivably, cerise against wet light.
The language of flowers is not all hidden from us.

        "Down there, beyond your garden.
A woman. Some children came across her."

Our places. The Jungle, silky once with poppies,
Now runs from seed into a greenstick scrub.
The saddlery, gone: a nest of curling tack
Blind-stamped back into a limy mould.
...