Between the river
And the remains
I watch as my wife and son
Do the grave chores,
Remove the recidivist,
weeds pressing their suit
Around the marble,
On the headstone
Of my much loved mother.
At first I weave about
As if in a minefield
Not knowing where to put my feet
But then I am aware of a crop
Of ancestors in their great, stone cots
attuned forever to the sacred loam.
Before arriving beside
that slug of river
they call The Dee.
The sandstone church sucks
To her bosom what light there is
While on the tower,
a dismal dark clock face stands guard
In case reality returns.
and I, I watch the circus act, salmon
rise from the water and the damselfly
dance in and out of the damson leaves,
torturing me with their little ways.
https://newcritique.co.uk/2020/07/10/poetry-bernard-pearson/
