And the crimson tears of God.
Then the next day, and the next,
She is back again.
Trying to be part of our lives,
To materialize through the glass.
When I was fitted out to her satisfaction
She put on her blue coat and yellow scarf
That complimented the soft brown of her eyes.
“Come on,” I said, “We shouldn’t be late.”
She held my hand on the steps
And asked where we were going.
It was Good Friday.
Every time I see a butterfly Flutter against the windowpane,
Desperately seeking the sunshine,
I think of her at the window,
When I walked away alone. The gravel crunched beneath my feet,
The last daffodils of the year
Bowed their heads and turned their backs.
It was an unforgivable Good Friday betrayal.
FULL CIRCLE
(For A.P., my mother, who lives in the past.)
We’ve come full circle, you and I,
From the pushchair of my childhood
Meandering along primrose
Lined pathways by streams in wildwood;
Winter nights and feathered ticking;
Autumn days and berry picking;
Purple fingered tin-can clatter,
Scarcely heard above our chatter.
Today I wheel you in silence
By neat-cut lawns, beds of roses,
Gravelled paths in formal gardens,
Concrete birds in rigid poses.
I pray that deep behind your eyes
You live in dreams of deep blue skies,
Fuchsia, gorse and scented heather,
Children playing in summer weather.
HELLO STRANGER
( For A.P., my mother)
We sat, I held your blue-veined hand,
You stared at me, a stranger.
Your eyes could see though you were blind
Seeing neither good nor danger.
You stared at me, a stranger,
Who once sat on your knee,
Whose face you stroked, whose tears you dried.
I wondered what you see.
Your eyes could see though you were blind.
No smile lit up your face.
I searched and hoped for any sign,
A wink, a blink, a trace.
Seeing neither good nor danger
With child’s simplicity.
I stroked your face, pinned back your hair
And you stared back at me.
This last poem follows a technique I learned from the American poet, Brian Turner, who used it to great effect in a powerful anti-war poem he wrote, probably while he was still serving with the American Forces. In my poem I imagine reversing my mother’s funeral from where members of her family lower the coffin into the grave to the point where she awakens from her last sleep, a few days after her 90th birthday.
BACK TO YOUR LAST BIRTHDAY
(i.m. A.P., my mother, who died 23rd Jan., 2007)
We take the strain, my brothers, Dan and me;
Left foot braced against granite kerbstone.
You rise gently, smooth and slow, as the straps coil
In neat circles on the new grave edge.
Recalling prayers in inward breaths in the damp evening air
As rain-drops rise and our tears run to our eyes and dry.
Then shoulder high we move in slow reverse,
Carrying you back to the gaping hearse.
With steady pace we back-step to the town;
Cars, sucking up exhaust fumes, people, your sons and you
In that order. At Bennetts’ gate our father’s ghost
Still hovers from the remembered tale
We shared on the journey up.
We draw him back to memory’s store
And the creased lines of our brief smiles
Become furrowed frowns once more.
Handshakes are retrieved in sharp motions;
Hymns and prayers are withdrawn
With each intake of breath
And we are back where you had taken your last.
Your death grimace has faded to a peaceful sleep
And your eye-lids flicker.
When I take your hand my comfort-words return to my lips
And you respond, almost imperceptibly, to my touch.
Broken-down reserve of those around your bed re-establishes;
Tales are untold and restored in dusty memory;
The response and invocation of the Rosary are drawn inwards
And you are awake. Curious puzzlement in your eyes.
It never happened. Somewhere a grave remains undug.
Wreaths are not required. Flowers bend in a Spring breeze
Or rest in vases. They are gathered instead into bouquets
To celebrate your last birthday.
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