My mother before she died insisted I should have a herb garden Something in her English soul amid rough South Africans Called for the tenderness of mint 5 The old scent of lavender1 and sage2 They arrived in soggy pages of The Star3 With a spade taller than herself She dug them into my backyard Before I was ready for them 10 A cigarette tightly in her lips Explaining chives4 made life worthwhile That is how she died in her own Garden of sweet remembrance5 Very frail then with a bucket and spade 15 The size we children used for play Always finding the sun too hot the soil Far too dry for the gentler herbs Today after the long heart-stopping drought My mother's bed of lost spices 20 Has so flourished I have cut it back And the mint is in the crevices6 of fingers The sage under my very nails And I remember her every gesture.

My mom, before she died, insisted That I should have a herb garden. Something in her English spirit Among the tough South Africans Wanted the softness of mint The familiar smell of lavender and sage. They came wrapped in wet newspaper. With a shovel taller than her, She planted them in my backyard Before I was ready for them. A cigarette tightly in her lips, She said that chives made life worth it. That's how she died in her own Garden of sweet memories. Very weak then with a small bucket and shovel, The kind we kids used for play. Always finding the sun too hot, the soil Too dry for the gentler herbs. Today, after the long, heart-stopping drought, My mom's bed of forgotten spices Has grown so much that I've cut it back. And the mint is in the cracks of my fingers, The sage under my nails, And I remember her every move.