Poem - Fields of Clare

I wrote this poem nearly 25 years ago and, discovering it now among some old papers, I recall how... I am not sure what the right word is - perhaps ‘unnerving’. This was an unnerving experience. I did find my own name there in that field in Clare. And I did see the names of some special friends, lining up almost to say hello.

I don’t underestimate the Power in nature and the world around us to surprise us when we least expect it. To jolt our memories. Perhaps we should exercise that part of our consciousness a little more, rather than just wait for the unexpected to happen? And by 'consciousness', I mean the shadows of our mind.

The Poem:

In a small, comfortable field in Clare,

Friends in rows awaited me,

Grassed over, consorts now of iris

Wild among loose sprays of

Orange-white

Which, brushing gently,

Burst sweet clouds that followed everywhere.

Kathleen… Sarah… Sandra… Ann…

Fine-marked in the stone and memory;

Yet, silent the eyes behind closed lids

And only, beckoning, reaching up to me,

Hands, loved and loved to touch,

Long in the finger, long in my hair,

That each once laid upon my arm,

To move a fleck or whisper

Up the grain of my skin with a polished nail.

Just right, just perfect,

Just where I’d wonder –

Even at the magic still there,

Now among fresh flowers and faded.

Pinned together, curled at the edges and crimped

And then folded. Made up,

Coloured up and clustered in bunches.

Prayed upon and tightly held.

Laid on the green chips with marble lasting longer.

I did not think to find them there –

Kathleen, Sarah, Sandra, Ann.

Only my own name on the headstone by the gate

Drawn in, unsuspecting

That even the smallest love lasts In the comfortable fields of Clare.