After

I saw the house before
I heard the birds, standing,
head bowed in a Rutland
field, hopelessly unaware,
but knowing just enough:
she wasn’t coming home.

Turn right for Egleton.
Or is it left? I can’t recall.
Don’t all roads in England
lead to the same tomb?
Why are the birds so loud?
God so quiet?

I gaze at her house,
decommissioned.
Life waits, wondering:
What do we do now?
This slip of earth juts
into the water’s bowels
like an unwelcome guest.

Moving between rooms
we find love in bad
dreams trapped between
old images of mum,
wedding invites and
unpaid bills.

Things I hated renewed –
wonder and majesty,
a life split into
trash and treasure,
all or nothing. Could we
have loved you more,

or told you more?
We find new homes for
for lost, dismantled and
broken bits of you, half
memories on every item.
Particles sing laments

from an English village
to the shores of Arran.
“Did Mum ever use that
ironing board?” I ask.
She walked round it
to get to the bathroom.
It watched her fall asleep.

No one wants you now,
no one wants your things.
You can’t take them:
when you go, they go.
All brushed of meaning
by death’s dull breath.

See the empty trees,
savour every moment.
This pain, this loss is the cost -
breath, listen to the birdsong.
Perhaps they can tell us more?