He was in my school, a year
or two above me, around my sister’s age.
No doubt she would have told me.
All I ever saw of it were flowers

tied with ribbon to the gate,
wilted, browning, their wrapping
worn but bright enough
to catch my eye.

The farmer must have sold the field,
Today the gate and hedge are gone,
and clean rows of bright new homes
stand happily in sunlight.

In front of the busy playground
a lone ash stands, sole souvenir
of a quieter road where trees grew
dense and shadows lingered closer
than one young man could stand.