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The day after work stopped on the building when suddenly no one knew what to call a hammer or a nail, when parrot screeches and the growl of wolves clashed in the Tower – after we'd all fallen silent again and no one was even sobbing - the next morning, Grandmother banged a ladle on a pan, called us together. With wide gestures she invited us to sit and then distributed slips of paper, tucking them into our pockets, folding the flaps, frowning.
She laid her forefinger then on her lips and pointed upward. Haltingly in the silence our voices answered: Cielo. Ouranos. Himmel. Sky. She nodded, flicked her hands dispersing us to wander off alone.
We left the tower – what did it matter now? – and set off on the paths across the fields and woods. Rain fell. The sun shone. Berries were ripe. A fox, rank and bushy, crossed the path, wordless. Among the branches swooped shadows and the purring flight of birds. I named and named until my head was full – then, hungry, astonished, eager, returned home to share my hoard of words with all the others.
Grandmother had baked bread and cooked soup. She fed us all, listening to our jargon and the next day sent us out in groups. It seemed she’d listened to our dreams as well for Aleph, Beth and Gimel came with me and Beth’s child, who didn’t have a name. This time we travelled further. Each halt along the way we gathered clumps of names quarrelling occasionally, but quickly learning to go for something everyone could say.
Sometimes we camped in the same place for weeks and stocked our heads with movements: stretching, stooping, leaving, returning, sleeping, waking, kissing. I kept with Aleph, Gimel set up with Beth so new and subtler movements were recorded: the branches of a tree moved like a lover, the earth was a mother. Likeness was born.
At times we met the others, traded words and ate new foods. One day, at last, we thought of the folded strips of paper. They were faded now, and hard to read. We smoothed them out and found a single word in our old language. It was the same on every one (and try as we might we never recalled another). ‘Together’, it said. ‘Together’. ‘Together’.
I was elbow-deep in grease. That lamb (in a herb crust) doesn’t exactly cook itself. And there’s a pan to scour after. Then the home-made bread, bitterleaf salad (lightly dressed with oil) not to mention figs, plums, apricots, almonds and a couple of bottles of wine. I didn’t notice him (or anyone) refusing second helpings nor minding me dodging about with dishes, spooning gravy, cutting extra bread. After dinner, there’s our Mary sitting literally at his feet – he has the one comfortable chair, she’s hunched on a cushion drinking it all in. I’m doing a quick sweep round the kitchen, hoping to get back to the chat half listening to them while I go on stacking pots. Then here he is in the doorway: ‘Mary’s made the best choice,’ he says. I stare. Is this a joke? My good lamb hardly out of his mouth, beard stained with gravy: ‘You should prioritise more. Don’t spend so long in the kitchen.’ And he’s on his way, picking a thread of meat from his teeth. God.
In memory of Ted Hughes
Heard you were dead; took down your Tales from Ovid.
Hercules roared off the page, wrestling Trees, rocks as he died; the Bacchantes Wrenched Pentheus' sinews apart,dis- Membering him like a chicken; softly, Midas Drooled idiot gold, spat barren Apple-pips. These destructions Shadowed others, more intimate, and howled In other forms, fangs, claws, the oily birth- Puddle of those born dead. Old shape-shifter, You lurk, pike, otter, in the dark Richness of my mind; the sky of four Decades quivers with your winds and wings: Hawk hangs overhead, or crows Torn like black paper in the gale toss Your words away... I must go out, Savour the late sun, the scattered kindle Of leaves, breathe in a new element That now holds you as you held it, broad- Casts you over and over the land Seeding us with your cells' wealth.
Seven weeks today. A July wind is tousling the trees, rumpling the garden. I have written five letters, washed the sheets. A mistake somewhere – I’ve not finished the crossword. Sit with the sounds of Sunday. Thrashing leaves. Cows. Planes. My own breath.
All week the air has burnt: it is breath from a lion’s mouth. No stir of wind to brush the cheeks of the sixth Sunday: silence quivers in the house, and the garden shrivels, as if the season’s finished. I sort bed linen. There are too many sheets.
A week leafed with letters. I scan these sheets about you, half alert to hear your breath until the words remind me that it’s finished. So sorry to hear. Rain in the wind hasn’t enough weight to nourish the garden. Bells clang dryly. It is the fifth Sunday.
I wake in your presence the fourth Sunday – not lying passive between your sheets but laughing, striding in the summer garden your mouth full of kisses, and your breath sweeter and stronger than the June wind. Why did I wake before the dream was finished?
Ready to go. I’ve nothing left unfinished you told me once. But now beside a Sunday river I want you here to watch the wind curving sails, to feel the hauled sheets as the boats put about, to taste the breath of summer gusting down from every garden.
The second week I meet you in the garden sitting under the oak where you once finished fixing the swing-seat; not out of breath but quiet and absorbed, reading the Sunday papers, glancing up, rustling the sheets, pinning one down that flutters in the wind.
I look out at the garden that first Sunday when everything is finished. I smooth the sheets and listen for your breath. There is only the wind.
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