On Common Land

I take mum up

through bogs and rusted ferns,

and with the prickle

of brambles, thorns, and gorse,

we search for yellow flowers.

Passing sponge fields,

all bumps and odd nodules,

key-cut peaks of

the black mountains

watching over us.

Under misty drizzle

we stop to rest

and sip a thermos

with cold fingers.

Nothing here 

but clouds 

and yellow flowers.

Mum’s precious scraps

on Common Land. It was

near half a century ago:

she scattered her mother’s ashes

and her sister’s memory

atop this bleak hill,

and planted daffodils

to find them again in spring.