We come here like scavenging hyenas
Hunting for clues to feed on
And find nothing
Nothing we didn’t know already
Old ground tilled and gone over by experts
The feminists, jealous writers, envious men
Desperate to wash the blood from their hands
Nothing new. We come here after 35 years
Empty handed
Save for the beautiful gift of her poems
Strong and wild as a horse
Her poems are better poems
Strong and wild as a horse
Galloped away, eyes frightened, and straight over
That awful cliff.
What do we find? Nothing. A surface scattered with objects
The dust of 35 years : A black doorstep with hearts painted on it
A crib, flowers, vegetables. A strong working desk
Built from the dumb hands
Of a man who didn’t know how to save you
From yourself
The memories, photographs and unanswered questions
Of 35 years : Nothing to stem the blood from the wound
Nothing to turn the tide of the awful red river
Gushing through the caverns
Of that marvellous mind
And the heart
Growing cold that freezing winter
Worst winter in 15 years. That winter.
That London winter as only
London winters can be. We cannot find
What only the husband
Who couldn’t drive through that unequalled snow
Was meant to find
Before the end
Before that marvellous heart
Had given up its sunny morning the ice
As blue as the jewel
He still holds in his hands. We cannot answer
Those awful questions of abandoned children
Those questions we ask ourselves
When something goes wrong
In the ticking machine of families
The waft and weave and fabric of love.
Where is our mummy? Six feet under
Where is our daddy? Left to grieve and burn
So many rivers
And so much to learn.