As children we hop across impossibly large footprints,
Like stepping stones in time that fill the expanse of years between us,
Our feet so small we can’t imagine ever filling those giant welly boots ourselves.
You had esoteric knowledge of wildflowers and all things green,
And of knowing every bird when they were just a distant skyward dot,
Now crystalised memories of half remembered wisdom you imparted long ago.
Like a gardener you nurtured us,
Helping us to grow tall and flower brightly,
But still your welly boots remain too large to fill.
Now you’re gone and have left a hole,
One larger than those imposing welly boots,
The boots that now stand empty, reminders of beautiful memories.
Tiny welly boots stand beside us now,
So we don your relic footwear and remember lessons learned,
We may never fill those mighty boots but we will pass on the lore and love you gave us.
Return to the earth you loved to forever nurture new life,
And we will try to do you proud.
Rest easy.
This was a clumsy piece I wrote for a memorial to my grandad and uncle who both died within a few months of each other. They were both gardeners, as is my dad, with a general love of nature. I hadn’t spent much time with either in the last few years, and as I look towards a family of my own, that gap in knowledge and experience seems so vast. It really does feel like you’ll never fill the boots left behind.
Matthew Roys 