WINTER
Bare branches reach for the sky,
Cold hands never grasping the warmth,
They sing a song of sorrow waiting,
Solemn in their deathless forms,
Waiting for spring to come,
And fill with blossoming new life,
A heart left cold with loss.
Snow crunched under her boots as she began the walk down to her grandparents’ farm. Her fingers were frozen and clumsy as she grasped the bouquet despite the warmth of her mittens. Tears beaded in the corners of her eyes, frozen teardrops burning in her cheeks. It had been weeks now, and still she was not sure that she would ever get used to his absence.
She thought she heard his eager breathing, the crunch of his paws in the snow as he lolloped beside her, but it was only the wind twisting through the bare branches.
The girl had thought it proper to bury him among the working dogs her grandparents had lost over the years. But even buried amongst his own kind she could only imagine him lonely and isolated so far from her.
She pushed open the gate, shaking snow onto the ground as she began the last stretch of her daily pilgrimage.
The bouquet made no noise as it fell to land among the countless others gathering there in a pile. She had chosen holly this morning, filling her mind with memories of Christmas Eves gone past, curled up together in front of the fire once they had finished decorating. The smell of woodsmoke and the cadence of her voice as she told him stories had blended together as they waited for the loud chiming of the grandfather clock, the sign of her mother was due home.
Fresh border collie tracks traced along the path as she returned now, and for a minute she could imagine he was leading the way for her. A girl and the ghost of a dog, alone like small blots of colour in a snow whitened world.
SPRING
Soft petals bud and unfurl,
Heralding the dawn of the new sun,
Their songs of growth and gaiety,
Nectar scent surrounding floral bursts,
Awaiting the buzzing of the bees,
And the growth of fruits,
Made rich and sweet with summer sunshine.
The first seeds she planted were bitter sorrel, their pots of soil kept warm inside. Outside the world was thawing, rivulets of water tracing their way over the latticework on the windows. Patches of green began peeking through the snow, reminding her of the long days she had spent romping through the fields, an exuberant dog by her side.
Though the silence had grown less foreboding, the girl still found the house dark and lifeless without him. Now she stood, nails cracked and covered with dirt in front of a collection of pots. And for the first time in a long while she felt truly pleased with herself.
When winter had finally let go of the countryside, conceding defeat, and the soil had thawed, the girl took her seedlings along with her as she made her journey. This time when she knelt down it was to push aside the dry and decaying bouquets, and loosen the earth. Into each furrow she created went a small plant, and the promise to cover the grave in flowers.
The guiding hands of her grandmother showed her how to fill a pot with soil such that carrots would grow straight, and how to prune the fruit trees to best encourage new growth and a plentiful crop.
With care the girl took these lessons into her heart, letting it begin to fill the gap that had been left there. Together she and their pair of working dogs would work in the fields after school, herding the sheep from paddock to paddock.
Sometimes she would stay late, doing her homework on the verandah as she fed the poddy lambs.
SUMMER
Salt burnt leaves hang listless,
Dry and brittle under the heat of the day,
Around them butterflies dance to unseen melodies,
Branches bowing with unripe fruits,
Waiting for autumn to near,
To fill stores and pantries,
With fresh picked abundance.
Shade pooled around them as they sat on the verandah halving apricots and looking out over the countryside, the lines of fences like stitching in a patchwork quilt.
“You know I never thought I’d be here,” the girl said, deftly slicing out a beak mark.
“I thought you’d go your mother’s way,” her grandmother admitted, “get a fancy job and move off the land.”
“I wanted to,” the girl whispered. “I think I would have too if he hadn’t died the way he did.”
Her grandmother nodded sagely, but didn’t answer, leaving the silence hanging syrupy thick through the air.
“Is it – is it too late to train me up to properly take over and run this place once,” she swallowed hard, “once you’re gone?” the girl asked. “There are too many memories to let it be sold.”
“If you care about it and put in the effort.” The last stone fell into the bowl with a clunk, causing the girl to look up from her work.
“Shall I get some more?”
Her grandmother shook her head, a strand of white hair slipping free from her bun to fall over her face. “This will be the last lot to preserve for today. You should head back.”
Thoughts of the shepherd’s pie they had put in the oven earlier, the smell of it drifting faintly out to them crossed her mind. “I can’t stay for dinner?” she pressed, unwilling to swap such a meal for one of reheated leftovers from the night before.
“Your mother is home early tonight, go and drag her back here. She deserves to take a squiz at what you’ve cooked.”
AUTUMN
A blanket of leaves cover bared roots,
Colours blending the landscape,
Under the whisper soft strokes of an artist’s brush,
An abundance of heavenly hues,
Waiting for winter to dull the world,
Witling down the stored preserves,
And resetting the world of another new beginning.
The gathering was bustling with at least a dozen stalls set up to sell their waves. She gripped her grandmother’s hand tightly, her heart thumping against her ribcage, a bird trying to flee as the first customer walked up.
“Could I have some of your apricot jam?” he asked, gesturing to one part of her stall.
She choked out the price, taking his money and putting it in the box they were using as a till. With shaking fingers she wrote down the price in her notebook, the wonky numbers jarring against the blankness of the page.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered as a family started walking around the stalls towards theirs. “I’m too shy.”
“Nonsense,” her grandmother hissed, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. “Think of what you’re helping.”
As she served the next few customers she concentrated on the animals in the shelter – those that would be adopted today – and those that would be helped in other ways by the fundraiser. Carefully she pried her fingers away from her grandmother’s letting their hands fall apart. She thought of her dog and the border collies at the shelter, as the jams on her stall took up less and less space.
Her hips grew sore from standing but she didn’t sit or falter, holding in her mind the small mostly white puppy he had been when he first was found by them.
A small whimper sounded from under the stall and a small white nose popped out. The girl dropped to her knees and lifted the tablecloth, to reveal a tiny border collie pup, pure white.
“Who are you?” she asked. The pup didn’t react, still looking over its shoulder as if scared of being followed.
Deaf, she thought remembering what her grandmother had said about the breed’s colouring. She held out a hand softly letting it sniff her, before grabbing its middle and picking it up to cradle gently.
“Have you got her?” a man asked, peering over the stalls. “I’m sorry about that, she’s with the shelter.”
Her grandmother looked critically at the dog in her granddaughter’s struggling arms and shook her head tiredly. “Has she had much interest?”
The man shook his head. “Not a lot of fellas around here want a deaf pup.”
“Can we keep her?” the girl asked, looking up from the pup’s big blue eyes.
“I suppose,” the grandmother answered slowly, “but she’ll be yours alone to care for and train.”
The girl nodded resolutely and remembered the name she had given her dog before she had realised that he was a boy.
“I think I’ll call you Gracie,” she said into her neck, hoping that she would be able to feel the vibrations.