The Hori-Hori Trowel

In memory of David Best (1952–2021)

I’ve savaged with my fork weed after weed.

My lost hori-hori trowel, if it’s here –

this is my hope – might smilingly appear

again, old friend, from its green dungeon – freed!

It’s heartbreaking to have the sheath alone,

as if shrugged off by death, and not the blade,

surely too bright to leave and lose in shade.

But I forgot: weeds covet all we own,

ruthlessly steal. Their truth, unearthed, is stark.

I haven’t found my trowel. And now it’s dark.