This is the seventh week of your leave-taking
I am re-walking our happy places
The river is spreading out her fan of amber
Her pretty illusions rippling like taffeta
Memories swirl like the winged seeds of sycamores
Your dust is shelved in a box, beneath the door of the grave
In the monstrous dark, I cannot reach or touch you
Your few possessions binned, or burned, or lost
Each day now is a cloud, caught on a nail
I think I see your profile in the crowd
Imagine you running, waving, by my bus
Crying ‘ Mother, mother, I'm here! '
I wish a crow could pick my mind away
Make it a windy space like a dead eye.
My precious hatchling,
Ah, could you only climb back into your shell!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A deep and dignified expression of grief and very moving.