*In memory of someone dear*
She appeared gracious in her drunkenness.
The greasy hair did not take away the soft cheekbone.
The pale skin,
lucid eyes,
kerchief falling
and her dreams always stalling –
it was either the sound of the pigsty
or his voice that interfered.
There was no shame in liking that cellar full of lumber
where petrol smell permeated all the tools –
next to celeriac
and potatoes sprouting
the muffled sound of neighbours shouting
into the air that should have smelled of honeysuckle instead.
Underneath the hidden window,
earthen floor harboured various bottles.
Plum spirits,
walnut liquor
and the local Silvan wine she drunk much quicker
even thought, it did absolutely nothing for her.
It was the sheer bottles she liked the best.
The way that chicken feathers stuck to them
appearing soft and clean as those of tiny owls
that were playing on her mind,
the worlds she was thinking up below the ground,
stories of forest mushrooms, love and war.
At the age of 37, she was gone.
‘Like a stone thrown into water’, my mum always says.
Where she dwells the tide carries on, loud and complicated
yet, she sees stillness in that flow that appears to move all of us.
And this week, they moved in and painted the cellar light green
and several corks were found on the earthen floor
that did not fit any bottles.
Out of the plastic dustpan an ombre feather ascended.
On a day so windless it has played with the air
as if the nest has been disturbed,
as if her presence was still there.
Not a migrant 