I'd like you undead, neighbour.

There's still that dovecote over the gate

between our gardens half-repaired,

a promise, a postponement still;

and if, dismayed by your forgetfulness,

I lose patience and build on what

you've left behind, I understand myself

enough to know I'll make a botch of it,

the outcome just one more

deferment.

But then again why get upset?

Your dying New Year's Day should imply

no earthly consequence. Forget the snowdrops

and crocuses, their sort of forwardness.

Now, Good Friday, three months on,

everything is as I expected it:

unpruned clematis climbs the fence

like hardfaced kids, bramble plays out

its ruthlessness, rubbish dumped for burning

stands in the rain.

Forever a mañana man, your procrastinations

threaten with infinity, are star-studded.

That's why half-done's

better memorial for both of us.