They've carried grandad Clegg across the stiles
and down the hill feet first, their misty arms
a sheen of moonlight joined around his box.
Eyes closed, she watches future histories
parade along the road, each witnessing
a source of strength. The bench beneath
the churchyard gate is damp against her legs,
now numb from sitting still. Old Clegg was good
for sharing gossip over steepened tea -
she'll miss his wisdom when he goes, she thinks.
Another coffin tops the hill, so small
a man can carry it alone. Her John
was four when Jesus called him home
so unannounced, an autumn drowning. Thumbs
of fog massage her shoulders; time to leave
the witnessing and take the straight road home.
The last to pass is fuzzy - just a shape
of light above the muddied path. A voice
behind her whispers: 'Tis yersen, old wife.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
NaPo 07 #2: Lych Woman
This one comes courtesy of an article I was reading in the Fortean Times on the way home from a farewell party. It's an old joke, but the old ones are the best (or so my 81 year old friend told me while he was trying to chat me up).