On this quiet afternoon, I'll plant the last of the bulbs. I'll enjoy the worthy ache in my back. There's a sure solidity in the packed and raked earth. I'll wipe the soil from the dull steel spade. I'll hang it in the shed on the third hook from the left.
I'll sit in the corner of the room as the evening advances. I'll breathe in the smells of suppers down the street. I'll wait - then I'll shut the gate behind me, lifting it to avoid the squeak.
Into the quiet of the night he'll stumble from the pub. He'll be so deafened by the din between his ears he won't hear me pad up behind him. He won't see it coming. He'll drop, too crumpled and pathetic to be worth burying.
I'll lock the shed, retire to my room, and in April the bulbs will come up.