April

As my train pulls away,
Back to the Solemn South,
Away from home where the tap water clouds from the limestone,
I think of my Grandmother,
As she lies, struggling out her last breaths against the cold Friday morning.

A legacy of elegance and fiery determination,
She leaves behind her three children, eight grandchildren and countless friends
To be once again with her Israel, wherever he waits for her.

Never one for sentimentality,
I doubt she would have liked this poem.
An affirming sense of will and an ageless grace that lives on through those who knew her,
And in the faded photos that litter the table.

A strong, kind woman -
One who commands awe and inspiration in the heart of the young man I have become.

The grey morning light on her cheekbone,
The muffled buzz of the lawnmower across the way,
These things congeal into a stillness,
A moment where time seems to pause and resume with every laboured breath.

She leaves nothing but love and strength.
Her daughter,
My mother,
As strong as anyone I'm ever likely to meet,
Whispers and strokes her hair,
The stark role reversal that old age renders inevitable:
'Go now, Mum, you can go now if that's what you want'.

The settling peaceful flavour of loss colours the air.

I sit on the 13.05 train to Paddington, and as Swindon and Reading fade past
I take the love my Grandmother left behind and tie it in knots,
Folding it down into a place where
Astaire and Rogers silently dance their final routine,
Swaying,
The patter of their heels joining the gentle thump of the February rain.