|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There, in the sloping field where ragged plastic banners, white and blue, herald something starting and try to snap the birds away;
that man passing, one fist full of fresh-killed rabbits which, still lithe, so newly dead, swing and falter and hang to his rhythm -
there, a hundred rooks take flight, rising over sunlit rails that slither towards the power-station, because a coal train hauls its weight
and passes, the wince of its wheels keen along the shuddering paddocks where one horse, unmoved, still grazes and never once looks up.
Nothing between them but space, and that little enough in such small rooms. Her untutored finger feels the weighted key drop and sound a C. The broken silence settles, mends itself, hardens. She does not turn; and though she’s dressed to catch his eye, still it does not move from staring at the broadsheet news.
But now he cannot read a word or lift his head, or find a thing to say that tells how much he yearns to step beyond this yellow room into another distance - like the picture on the wall. The door seems painted shut; the only exit is this window, the ground three floors below.
If she would turn and speak; if they could find some better way to join things up than the useless fact that both are leaning on the little circle of their parlour table.
We’ll make him six foot one, if that’s okay - a little more than me. In metric, though.
His hair will be my mousey brown, but thick like yours, your dad’s – we’ll have him keep all his.
And let’s imagine we have passed things on: salt-watered blood that draws him to the sea;
a love of trees, of hills; a passion for the sun-sweet-musted scent of forest floors.
His talents will include a flair for art – a sensitivity to colour, line –
and sport. He’ll love to sprint on late night roads for no-one, nothing but the thrill of speed.
His hand and eye, his jaw, will just achieve a handsomeness, a winning smile; that look.
He’ll have a sharpened humour, naturally – his older sister’s wit will be his strop.
And yes, the two may sometimes fight or flounce, slam doors to music neither of us likes,
but that’s the price you pay with any kids: you help them up, then teach yourself the art
of letting go. Just as we must with this imagined boy who ghosts through autumn days
like these, in which we’re walking sunlit fields, describing him as if he had been born
and guessing what he might have asked for on his list – he would have been fourteen this month.
We thought we’d lost them all; even ones we’d only had since March. But somehow we have saved them from the brink of slow and wilting death
and all our accusations of neglect have proved to be just empty talk. However badly cut, we’ve watched new shoots, new buds grow into blooms
so other-worldly they defy design. And, Sarah, those we got from you have seen it through – not both to flower but we will work on it. There must
be something we can do to nurture them; if we could just remove ourselves from all the day-to-day enough to spend some time in learning how
to read the signs or look out for the little changes, silent messages that tell us we should intervene. Instead, we’ve mostly left it far too late
and found ourselves bewildered that what we naively thought to be so green and strong – so healthy still – has quietly taken leave of life.
|
|
©
of
all poems featured on this site remains with the
poet |
