The ‘phone rang early on this morning
much as any other. One of the nurses
at the home. You recognised her voice,
the tall one. Cleared her throat: “I’m sorry,
very sorry. Your mother passed away
last night. Died in her sleep. She looked
so peaceful…” Silence, just the view
through the bedroom window. Autumn’s
edge. You cleared your throat.
Platitudes, you notice, edges buffed
by years of distant comfort, administered
over the winding of so many sheets.
Strange employment, you reflect, working
at the edge of finisterre, both gardener
and ferryman. And then you drove there,
numb, between the unharvested fields.
The day before, you wheeled her
down the drive, the beeches crowding,
still in leaf, a draft of crows above each one.
And from behind the Hall, like vapour rising,
Shillington bells afloat, now clear, now cloudy,
ringing away the years for both of you.
For her, a wedding just before the war,
or maybe bells occluded in a winter mist
on Erith Marshes, standing at the garden gate,
bonneted for church. For you, the ring of six
cascaded like a silver chain, unlinking
as it fell. You turned. Along the fenceline,
through the trees and into the fields beyond,
a child is running hard towards the world’s edge.
5:25:57 PM 
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