24. Jun, 2020
I found it again;
That place of midsummer,
Golden yellow with iris and waterlilies.
The place where dragonflies come from that hum by
In kingfisher blues;
Where a coot nests in bulrushes - black, white billed.
Trees hide the rich water, flush with carp and pike;
There’s a broken brick path
Through bramble thickets,
With two rough rocks for a portal,
A suggestion of the way to a fabled place.
The lake doesn’t come only once a year,
But I do, to its hideaway
In the middle of everywhere, as still as a secret,
Which is what we call it.
Last evening a heron,
Harassed by seagulls, flew over our garden.
I knew where it was headed,
Jibed at by its competitors,
Who can gorge themselves, anyway, on the tip,
Which is all that remains alongside.
Ruth Enright
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.