Long wynd home against the deep, stretched snow
lying along the hill, clutching branches of lives even older
than these worn, cracked bones, cold seized joints crying against
the day,
pleading the night in cold places,
damp, chill evenings,
rain,
and white blankets thrown so neatly
to cross this path, stoop this aged scarfed head,
bowing deeply, ducking its aching neck,
to dodge the winds that dull my grip
as I catch the icy blast,
and stagger.
Sounds of geese and red flashes, like berries dancing,
witness these uneasy steps, this watcher since those best of moments
when we climbed here the first time,
those days of crayons you called them, later,
when we scurried the hedgerows,
purple brambled faces and broad white smiles,
catching darted glimpses,
a warm, tiny hand in mine, painless pleasure.
I loved, long gone
to timeless years, extending still
when I walk here with my bent back,
to carry home the shopping,
clutch at sights with old eyes so tired, so close
your voice as clear as this day, warm like another time
to keep me on this hill of ours,
by my side, like you said that first time
when we wound the trail of secrets that held the hill against our fall,
and the other things
I remember, like I said I would,
while you tide me home.
Note: I once completed a period of reminiscence research with older members of a remote island community. The power and vividness of their recollections of events sometimes as far as 75 years distant was remarkable and a privilege to share. This poem is tribute and a reminder of rich lives and times that might have passed but which are also still amongst us within the memories of the older community.