November 7th 2021
At this time of year there are no flowers in the garden, so I raid the herbs instead. I get my scissors and go and cut sprigs of rosemary and sage. Rosemary for remembrance. Sage for wisdom and immortality. I tie the small bunch of herbs with some string and hold it in my hand. I enjoy the act of picking the plants and making a bouquet. I am actively doing something to remember Felix, by taking him a gift.
I reach the Green Hill just before dawn. There is a blanket of grey cloud but the sun breaks through, creating a watery fieriness on the horizon. There are strange vertical columns of grey cloud, a bit like static tornados. The place is deserted. Felix’s grave is unadorned, save for the bedraggled flowers I left last time. At this time of year, nothing grows on the grave.
His headstone, a flat piece of slate, is wet. It’s been rainy and damp this month. I lay the small bunch of herbs down on it, the pale greens of the herbs a quiet contrast with the dark grey slate.
I wander down the field and look down at the river. It is full, with a dull reflection of trees. This is a strange month, a non-month, a time when we endure.
The Green Hill 