Sometimes, as home-grown new
potatoes, in the raised beds
shallow and easy to lift
Sometimes, as in my childhood
planted deep by the farmer
for his tractor driven machine to turn over
Sometimes, as with my mother’s parents
my grandparents, set rich in the earth
looking down the valley, from their coffins
Although not all my pasts are buried, not yet
Sometimes I write about them
in a tense which may suggest
That they no longer inhabit my life
Sometimes I am more celebratory
Even wishing that they could be here
To share in with the good times
Sometimes the black dog catches up with me
Then I don’t think well of owt at all
However alluring my pasts deem themselves to be
Not all my pasts will be buried, no, not ever
