I don’t like sunflowers -
they remind me of you:
you grow them once and
then they are gone.

Just like that.

It has been four years and
I have not yet visited where
you were lain, amongst the
paddocks and the powerlines.

I feel guilty about it.

I think of you not often but a lot:
Perhaps the sun has gone
behind a cloud or a slight rain
has begun to fall.

And I wonder if you can feel it too.

I see the shade in your mother’s face
as she watches Liv and I in the kitchen,
laughing like you would be too if you were
there. You missing: the elephant in the room.

You were here.

For such a moment.

And then you were gone.