Ten years ago she died.
Collapsed forward on her knees.
Bare legs and a stripy dress.
Her hands curled in.
Dark hair in a pony tail.
Skin make up free.
Ten is a round number.
Friendly like.
In ten years countries have formed.
Wars have been fought and ended.
Whole times have passed and all she is is unknown.
If she'd lived she'd be sat in a comfy armchair.
Watching her children play under an upright piano.
The sun would be warming.
And the sounds of the day low.
She'd be thinking through how to make her asparagus grow.
And how pleased she is with the sunflowers all in a row.
I wonder what she'd make of me.
Ten years on if she were here thinking of me it'd be different.
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