Hard to be alone by Maxine Rose Munro

I saw to the burial myself,

it was only right. So much

time together in the garden.

Even when it was too cold

for me, there she would be

out working, checking.

The ground was near frozen

when she went under, worms

were nowhere to be found.

But it was him I worried for.

Plumed pepper-black, white

streaks salt on his face –

striking is how I'd describe

him. You couldn't mistake

him for any other. Birds

of a feather, always together.

Come spring he will look

for her, find an empty nest,

broken, unfixed. And what

will he do then, poor thing.

Will he re-enact the years,

sing, strut, all for her

no longer here. Or will he,

purpose lost, stop.

---

Maxine Rose Munro writes in both English and her native Shetlandic Scots. She is widely published in the UK and beyond, both in print and online, and her work has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. You can find more about her work just here.

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