It's Still Life

The Colour of Elsewhere — Poems from the Periphery

The Remains of Sweden — IV

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— 19 July: The Remains of Sweden

she is long gone,
rain washed her into soil,
lifted her into sky.

but much of her remains.

the brittle snap
of pine needles.
the heavy latch
on the iron gate.

her bedroom window.
the wrap-round porch.

beyond the forest,
the salt-seasoned footpath.

my footsteps
on the wooden bridge
over the tidal stream.

the beach.

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I remember
summer sun
breaching the window,
striking the clock face

every afternoon.

sage-green shelves
in the kitchen.
stacks of books
she read again
and again.

and I think
it is not the least bit strange
that I have returned here

the same age
she was
when she died.