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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