Drifting Out
She sits beside his bed in the winter dusk.
Just for a while she can do nothing more.
Doctor and priest have been. His sons will come By a night train. She keeps the curtains open.
Homegoing footstvs pound below the window.
Car lights wash the walls. Along the street Doors bang, children leap stairs, The homely tea-time rituals begin In warm kitchens. Finished with that, he lies Still, the fresh sheet drawn smooth Over the body's chaos, hands and feet Quiet under the healing oils. This pause, Strange, circles slow on dark water Rising below. Inside the impassive head That she can only stroke, the severing clot Sets him adrift in time. He runs aground Some Friday night in the nineteen-thirties, And fingers fumbling on the quilt can't find Shillings enough to fill the tins for rent Insurances and coal. He struggles, trapped, But instantly she finds him, knows the place, Gathers the distressed hands and pulls him clear To drift again. Their fifty years together Are charted in his last delirium.
Later a neighbour calls. She goes downstairs To brew unwanted tea. Chrysanthemums Fresh from his greenhouse tang the air. His boots, Allotment clay still drying, stand on the mat.
Impacted time is stunned. Kettle and cups Steady her hands, but down below the wall By the wet stones at the water-line, the ropes Untwist in darkness, the street sways away, The whole house turns, slips from familiar land, And will not find safe harbourage again.
Margaret Cooke
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