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published
in South 39, ISSN 0959-1133
Retrieving
my Umbrella from Hardy’s House
Scurrying through
the shrubbery in the rain
to
Hardy’s house, Max Gate,
to
see where Tess was invented,
I
hang my black umbrella on a hook.
After
admiring the study, the sitting room,
leafing
through scrapbooks, documents and letters,
I
step into the conservatory, walk in the garden
where
the sun comes capering. Then I leave.
Next
day I go back. Hovering in the porch,
I
half expect Hardy to answer the door,
invite
me in for tea, allow me to weep,
to
plead for a reprieve for Tess, to say
If
there has to be a rape let the baby live,
if
it dies let the priest at least be kind.
Or
please, please, spare her the rope,
but
there’s no hope, it’s too late. His pen
has
already hanged her at Winchester, that morning
at
eight. A small black flag has been hoisted
on
a staff, Angel and Liza-Lu stand and grieve.
I
take down my umbrella and leave.
Denise Bennett
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