Like a stone into water


*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.