2. Apr, 2017
The old stone posts
Stand wide,
An entrance still,
Beckoning you in
To the ghost of a driveway
Hidden in a shadowed walk.
There's no house at the end
To greet you though,
Unexpected visitor,
Just wetland marsh
And a reedy pond
Where the ducks still live,
Sole tenants now
Of High Field Farm,
Gone back to the land
So long ago.
But guarded, perhaps,
By its one time dogs,
Maxie, Jimmie and Bruce,
Whose memorials stay too
In the spinney woods,
A loving trace
Of the vanished place.
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.