You would have loved

the frosted

The crunchy underfoot.

Leaves of gold and whisper-cold,

Lines a fine artist/ Inscribed for you today.

You would have laughed/At our jokes, our ropey pokes

At current affairs and currant buns/And steaming tea in chilly huts

We’d pretend were cosy.

You would have been quick to rail/At the flailing ways/Of the ailing /Powers that be.

Sharp of tongue, then quicker to/ Giggle at the memory of some

Ill-judged daft apethery,/ High brow high jinks,

(Or so we thought at the time).

You would have forgiven me for not/ Having wooden shutters

Or a year’s supply of Sweaty Betty/ Leggings.

You would have championed your mum

And your brother with tiny fists,

Clenched and mighty.

You would have fought nail and tooth

To keep every opportunity open/ To your beloved daughters, Your finest

Friends,

And burst with pride for Rhys,/So incredibly nifty at nearly fifty.

You would have noticed.

And so we think of you with fierce love

And/Smiles that spread, unbidden,

In church, at bedtime,/ In the middle of Lidl,

And raise a glass to Polly, With Prayers of

Thanks

For this beautiful frosty walk.

Claire Sandys, Dec 2 2023.