Frieda - Part Three

Dark skies, rain

Over harbour

And cottage rows.

This shawl of grey

Offers no shield against the wind.

Behind me stands the old Lime Kiln,

With fine, forked, threads of its old white soul, still coursing underground.

Bleeding into the Mud Flats.

Those fat, squelchy, earthy veins

Stretching, reaching out …

Beyond what the eye can see or know.

I picture this place

In the eighteen hundreds …

Gallagher’s wife wanders down to shore

Babe in arms

End of another long day

Waiting to walk her Miner home.

I listen for the church bell

Ringing in the rest days.

Full-throated gulls circle round,

And fishing boats rock and knock,

The water toying with their hulls.

The tide comes in high

Then leaves off.

Depositing

Another layer.

 Our spent time

Building up and up.

The Gallaghers wend their way home

Stepping their impression into the mud.

 I tread their path, I chase their ghosts,

As others will chase mine,

When I am gone.

 Their fingers, their feet,

Touching the things that I have touched,

Their lives brushing against,

Past journeys, past actions …

Theirs, mine, yours …

 In unconscious

And unknowing ways.

Connected.

In ways that make sense after all.

In all the ways that lead to now.

Bone fragments

Freshly unearthed.

This offering a spectre gives …

How he tips them into my careful hands

 And bids me pay attention

The vision unlocked …

Christmas.

Frieda sets an empty place at the dinner table

Daughter asks why she does this year after year

The answer comes …

To remember …

To remember those who are not here.

By Robyn Hunt

In Honour of a Beloved Mother and Grandmother

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