12. Jan, 2022

Whitby Fossils

These ancient things are bone cold,
Ice-breathed into stone.
There’s jet, black as a shark’s eye,
Cliffs filled with monsters
That rose from old sea beds, soft clays and shales
Where those trees grew,
Jurassic palms bleeding amber sap, soft wood
Turned obsidian hard, petrified
By that bleak North sea that batters
All flesh with unforgiving pebbles,
Turning and churning, grinding with the tides,
Wet polished until the wind bleaches them
Dry as dust,
Pale as the sea fret, sea mist ghosts wandering the waves
Like lost dreams, lost hopes
Of forgotten people, who walked
On the ammonites with bare, living feet,
This eroding coast their only street.

Ruth Enright

Overview

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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.