Still

This is from my notebook dated 20th May

Now, a sloping field peppered with yellow buttercups,
evenings light til after half past nine
and me in sandals taking down my summer clothes
in bags from the loft
and you still dead.

Now, when the date on the newspaper says May
and there are lettuces and radishes to bring in from the garden
and we sit outside with cups of tea, and rub in sun cream
you're still dead.

It's still December, it will always be December
or maybe the pouring rain of January
when we stared as your pale wicker coffin
emerged from the back of a hearse
and knew you were inside it.
It was you.

Now, when I cannot work,
when I stay at home and try to learn what healing is,
try to find a way to feel safe again, to feel joy again
I can't talk to you about it because
you're still dead.