You were both on your way out of hospital
but not at home yet, I kept phoning and phoning
but there was no answer. I was sensing you old, tired,
just days after father’s heart operation, a dishevelled,
fragile breathing in the dark of the winter evening,
and the few scattered lights of the cold countryside,
a geography of asphalt, gravel and frosted grass,
a stark unframed canvas spreading in the distance.
I phoned your mobile and thank God you answered;
I seized your creaking voices from the road
and when I frantically asked you where you were
you said Grange, the name of the village
you were passing, the next one from home.
You had made it. I felt the land soften and ease,
all flashed near, the bending road, the crossing,
the running ditches, the poplars down the railway line,
their branches brushing me while all silently shone,
the hedges opening again, folding us all back home.
Grange. One day after, I can't stop relishing
the simple sound of that village name;
it reminds me of others like ripples expanding.
I hear their echoes run above your humming wheels,
bounce among the rocks of distant mountains,
become the trailing sound of my wish of being
reminded always of this world's geography,
the land that rolls beneath us in the heartbeat
of the road, spreading forward, out beyond our breath
where there will be no more eyes to see.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.