As a child I remember barbecues
in my grandparents’ garden,
an alcove by the greenhouse,
sheltered by the trees.
I remember labour in the sun,
my grandfather’s strength,
my grandmother’s kindness.

Their garden was sacred to me,
a place for beautiful things,
but as I grew older, I drifted away;
their garden became unfamiliar,
foreign soil.

Some weeks after my grandmother died
I found myself in that garden,
and I came to the alcove
that housed those barbecues
all those years ago,
and I found it overgrown.