Before he died, before the stiches burst
and he bled out on the hospital floor,
he came and offered me snow in a dream.
He approached the task as in his life:
resourceful, strong; blue hands working
overtime, analysing the freshest pockets
in the garden to hand me in big clumpy
‘The fuck are you doing?’ I said.
He smiled and pointed up at the sinking
flakes, how they shouldered his coat,
caught in his eyelashes, melting into tears.
A scratching noise made me turn towards
a shadow hidden in the undergrowth.
The white was coming thick and fast
and I was running out of words.