A Private Moment
The small raised churchyard
Invites you in up steps
To its secretive enclave,
Quiet, privileged, meant for those
With prestige.
Inscriptions are lengthy,
On enduring granites which are
Still polished up, as if done daily,
By maids.
It feels solitary, a discovery,
But is not.
I've disturbed a woman
Studying a tomb slab.
Chinese, perhaps, she is sturdy
In her summer dress.
Irritated, she moves off
To a stone bench in the shrubbery.
It does not save her from intrusion.
A chattering group of men,
Asian, middle-aged,
Wander through with vague interest,
Then out again.
I wonder what the people below,
With their so parochial English names,
Would make of their visitors today?
The woman watches me walk away too.
Good, she clearly thinks!
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.