Poem: “All Souls’ Day” by Frances Bellerby

 Let’s go our old way 

by the stream, and kick the leaves 

as we always did, to make 

the rhythm of breaking waves.

 

This day draws no breath – 

shows no colour anywhere 

except for the leaves – in their death 

brilliant as never before.

 

Yellow of Brimstone Butterfly, 

brown of Oak Eggar Moth – 

you’d say. And I’d be wondering why 

a summer never seems lost 

 

if two have been together 

witnessing the variousness of light, 

and the same two in lustreless November 

enter the year’s night …

 

The slow-worm stream – how still! 

Above that spider’s unguarded door, 

look – dull pearls … Time’s full, 

brimming, can hold no more.

 

Next moment (we well know, 

my darling, you and I) 

what the small day cannot hold 

must spill into eternity.

 

So perhaps we should move cat-soft 

meanwhile, and leave everything unsaid, 

until no shadow of risk can be left 

of disturbing the scatheless dead.

 

Ah, but you were always leaf-tight. 

And you so seldom talk 

as we go. But there at my side 

through the bright leaves you walk.

 

And yet  -- touch my hand 

that I may be quite without fear, 

for it seems as if a mist descends, 

and the leaves where you walk do not stir.