longing

deaths for you

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I have died a hundred deaths for you.
Since we met…
Since we kissed, that first time.

And you talked about our daughter
Perilously.

The cherry blossoms were not out
but sunlight glimmered cooly
over the spring air
over my red date shoes tucked under the café table.

You disappeared.
Something you would do again and again and again.

So I died that death then,
Cried the tears out in the middle of a business trip.
Discovered peace.
‘Extraordinary grace’ a voice declared,
And I believed it.

I was staying in your city.
You were seeing someone else, and yet
there was power, was there not, in that air?
You could not stay away; yet honour prevailed.

I died that death then,
cried the tears out in my new friend’s country house garden.
Her father made waffles with cloudberry jam.
How could such sweetness exist?
With pain?

I lived in your absence.
You never wrote or called.
You policed yourself so well.
One day you introduced me.
Possibly naive.

There was no death there.
I’d died beforehand,
in fire and wonder
of my own making.

And then you came to find me, again
we kissed, under the Red Moon sky,
in the midsummer night of a picnic,
a bracing swim,
tender conversations,
delight in your eyes.

In a blink you had vanished.
You were ‘afraid’.
You were ‘running away’.

You met someone else.

I died such a death,
the like of which I’d never seen before.
Wild trust, goodness and silence,
knowing, fury
Pain, fire, tears and painting
My dreams caught alight.

I have died a hundred deaths for you, yes
And I am more alive than I have ever been.

nest

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I am building a nest for you,
my love,
out of my hopes,
out of my dreams.

I am building it from sweetness,
that I allow to grow within me,
these sweet summer days,
on the threshold.

I am building a nest that will not fail us,
when you arrive,
and our hopes entwine.

I am building it from fire,
and longing,
a desire that will not snuff out
in cold winds.

I am building you a nest,
my love,
and when you discover it,
you will be amazed,
and you will hold me,
and we will be healed.

And new,
and at peace,
and whole,
and ready.

last pelargonium

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It was really quite white
when I found it,
the last pelargonium,
but I was on a budget
and it was reduced
so I bought it
although really I wanted a pink one.

It’s a ‘mårbacke’, said the florist.
It’s a traditional kind.
But it was white
so I doubted.
Do you know the place?
I didn’t.
It is the home of a famous writer,
Selma Lagerlöf.
A current barely stirred.

And anyway,
I was on a budget
so I bought it
although it wasn’t pink,
but white.

I stood my white pelargonium
in a mixing bowl.
I didn’t own a plant pot
and was on a budget.
A mixing bowl was all I had.

It stood, a little self-conscious
on my step.  Two flowers giving me
joy, but white, and no others
arrived to join them.

I looked up Lagerlöf:
A woman writer
native to this land,
winning prizes,
when women didn’t.

I wished my plant was pink.

I went away for work,
asked an almost-neighbour
to water my pelargonium.
She took it in its mixing bowl,
didn’t comment.

A while later I returned,
settled in and eventually went
to retrieve the last pelargonium.
It has probably died, I told myself
to preempt disappointment.
The neighbour may not have been there
all the time.  It’s been hot.

I wandered up the path,
curved around the corner.
I spied the last pelargonium
covered in flowers.

They were pink.

absence of things (small children)

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There are no small children in my house today.
I shall describe them: tiny newborn crying
baby tears and ‘needs changing’.
Eleven and a half month old
holding onto every edge, nappy hanging.
No dainty little girl, proud
with a ‘real haircut’, a red-cherry hair clip
and her mummy’s handbag.
There is not one serious little boy,
five years old perhaps, just started school,
new shoes a single scuff and
wants a knight sticker book and a playdate at Zach’s house.

I have, of course, held open a heart of hope
and my longing is so deep, so true, and there is so little time.

Note: This is from the ‘poetry retreat series’. We read David Hart’s ‘There are no chairs’ and were asked to write a poem about the absence of something in about four minutes.

I cannot face the hopeful girl

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I cannot face the hopeful girl,
not tonight.
I’m OK sitting
in the firelight
that burns.

She knocks,
hopefully, and with some
restraint
on a door wedged in now
by damp, and rain.

I could get up
and welcome her
but I sit still longer,
safe with my
weary despair
well worn as
old slippers.

I can hear the rain
beating down
on her, feel her
presence flattened
for protection
against the wall,
or window, even
(the blinds are down)

Dare she knock again?
I wonder, not knowing
what I wish for,
on red-alert,
but poised to
dive for cover.

Inertia reigns.
What if she tries
another door,
gains welcome there,
instead? An
inner shriek
runs through me
at the thought
but still I sit.

‘Get up!’ rings
all around me,
a ghost chorus,
infiltrates the wild wind,
real, but powerless
to move my arms
and legs.

‘Wait!’ I call out,
barely,
and hope she will.