It was such a grey morning when you left.

You never had time to see the new daffodils

Poking up through the dark earth.

You were tired and could not wait,

Dead before we reached you through the fog,

The trees black, the roads slick with rain.

Your body still warm when we arrived

Then cold and grey as the fog,

Still as the windless trees,

Gone somewhere we could not yet follow

The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths