7. Jan, 2017
The houses sit up high.
To the side, Wainhouse Tower,
Folly and eccentric sentinel,
Looks out too across the valley,
Where Norland shift shapes
With the weather.
Dull eyed with rainy greys, or
Dressed up in Dales green fields, with sheep.
Skies pour into the slack mould of the hills
And sunsets cast spells.
But the house stones, yearly,
Are powdering back to sand
Around the window frames.
And in the winter,
The wraith wind
Completes its moorland keening
Through the keyhole,
As it lets itself in.
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.