A Frosty Morning

Winter clamps the graveyard with iron fingers; frost penetrates the split tombs and fades the names of those long dead. No one lingers; not even a robin on bare branch dares carol a tune. Budding hawthorn is stilled; only snowdrops are brave enough to herald the spring. Yet traces of autumn linger; crackled beech leaves, white-veined, mulch the earth; birds have stripped the holly bare of berries.
Further down the slope cars drift through the grey wintry haze and people scurry past, heads down, scarves held close to keep out the chill.
I trace the remnants of summer. A few stubborn petals linger by the hedge, faded and crusted with ice, in remembrance of sunnier days, butterflies and fleeting cherry blossom. It is hard to imagine the spiky stumps of rose bushes flowering again. Digging deep into the crusty earth I find my mother’s fragile name card. There are no fragrant lipstick-coloured petals to pocket but the memories of the dead linger and scent the air.