The lost, in their imaginary wishes, rule In every place their living has vacated.
He would have liked, we say, . . . to see the whole Garden trim as a tune, each path well weeded, Dead heads removed to leave each rose a flame. She would have wanted . . . everything just so. Left to do more than mourn, we work, turn to, Set out cold silver to console a name, Practise our homage to what once was home.
Restless as thoughts, these ghosts, who won't disperse For all the holy waters of remorse. J. R. Maddicott