Imagine that you’re not there
But on some Caribbean shore
Not the cold surf numbing your grief
As you shuffle across this beach
Barefoot in November
Remembering Sons and Daughters
Doilies on the sideboard
Sugar cubes in a bowl
A bird on your table
Nipping at crumbs and seeds
Puzzled by the kiss of frost
The way daylight fades and falls
The sage tang of handsoap
When your father washed out your mouth
For mistaking ‘twit’ for ‘twat’
Shirtsleeves rolled up over the elbow
Arms all skin and sinew
Camera strap around his shoulders
The way your sister used to whimper
By torchlight under the bedclothes
Chewing the corner of a blanket
Or the time you locked yourself
Out of your house
And slept in the garden shed for a week
Until your daughter found you
Malnourished and murmuring
How she used to mispronounce her own name.
Lisbet Lisbet
The final letter from your sister
Grasped in your fist
All those tissues twisted
In the depths of your sleeves
Like something obscene
Or your grandfather sent to Burma
Trailing streamers, handkerchiefs and tears
To meet a lone-wolf U-boat
All those khaki bodies below deck
Clawing their way to a porthole
Tunic buttons flashing in the moonlight
All the things that deposited you there
Walking barefoot on a beach in November
Silk scarf draped over your shoulders
Huddled against the wind
Arms linked in a helix with your companion
A sorrow-harrowed man whose name escapes you
In bobble hat and week-old stubble
Gripping your wrist as if meaning to harm you
All these things you cannot say for certain
If they mar or sustain you
And you cannot decide whether to laugh or cry
As you try to remember to remember
Walking barefoot on this beach in November
As the ashes of your mind blow away like leaves