Hiraeth
A flare-up of lupus, a black tongue
As if burnt by some dormant fire that sprung
From the embers, a last-gasping flame
That scorched then sputtered as it overcame
The last of you (the you less three stones).
Your skin draped loosely over frail bones,
You sipped a tepid cup of tea
From a straw, whispered “Abergavenny”:
I remembered that summer ramble
In the dimpled mountains, you’d scrambled
In high heels up Llanfoist path,
Seventy then, and you weren’t out of breath.
Hard to reconcile that you with this
The parched lips that give a brittle kiss.
No one says what the doctor thinks,
We stare at the half-drunk nutrition drinks
Like a makeshift graveyard on your tray
That word – grave – cannot be wished away
As I hope inwardly for grace
To soften the earth’s hungry, brute embrace
“I’m walking to Llanbradach tonight,”
You say, but death your only lamplight
Cuts a different thoroughfare
Boulevard of shades, turnpike to nowhere
Your body will rest at Gelligaer
Your flame no longer quenched by this air
The priest will talk of paradise
As something you longed for, as if that might suffice.
-- Dylan Willoughby
