Winter sun hangs low in clear blue of sky, half-blinded by its potency,
yet I know what lies outside, beyond backdoor open, concrete patio
shiny wet, out there on untamed grass, while I am halted here in probing
warmth, amidst automaton tasks of the day. Everything has changed,
everything.
Before, I was drawn into your garden at first hint of sunshine, riotous
bark of pheasant, beckoning of ivy gargoyle green, heady dew of honey-
suckle, I was undone and reborn every time, but now this devastation,
wreckage lain bare, anguish reaching through eyes squeezing soul
breathless.
Vaulted giants bare-branched standing guard along bottom edge of garden,
your glassless greenhouse to the left, solid tomb of brick shed to the right,
garrisoned behind this orchard now uprooted: bulging wounds in bleeding
earth, black skeletal torn up humps, beached carcasses of stranded whales.
All talked of those gale-force winds, while you said so little. Did you sense
the end they signalled? Did you bury finale’s inevitability? Steering, instead,
our closing conversations to lighter matters: culinary adventures with pumpkin
lasagne, windowsills of neglected radishes calling for attention.
Here in the doorway of your emptying bungalow, weeks of sorting–throw
away, give away, pack, sell. Bold blue rayon dress I never knew you kept,
rings and perfumes I never knew you had, socks and books and gardening
gloves overflow forgotten drawers, once hidden shelves. No emotion, only
emptying. Evacuating a ship slowly sinking, this goodbye will be the last,
for these rooms, these walls, this spacious green, this annual oasis of thirty
years… Song thrush bursts into lament from within thicket of fallen trees,
a sigh, then roar of breeze swells in uppermost branches of gleaming oak,
of emerald firs, the wavering cry of distant sheep rolls and lingers mid-
air, gutter trickles its steady, sedate drip of thawing freeze into drain
beneath your kitchen window, as I read the message in these
scattered remains of a storm, this blessing in heavy disguise:
It is over.
Ann van Wijgerden
Born in London, the U.K., Ann van Wijgerden has spent most of her life in the Netherlands and the Philippines. She’s had her writing published in a number of magazines, and works with a charity providing education for children living in Manila’s slum area of ‘Smokey Mountain’.
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