Margaret

A late letter for Margaret

So you have slipped away, Margaret,

bequeathing us warm memories

which will last our days

(you had a rough time of it,

it seems, these last months).

I will read your John Donne,

at church, your favourite quote:

No man is an island

(No nor woman neither

as Hamlet said unsmiling).

I will be thinking of Prospect Row,

early mornings, the smell of fresh bread

and your local Slip and Snug

two yards from the back gate,

Yes and Nadine there

holding a rose to her ear.

Then Keys’ Cottage in Meldreth

where we camped out to watch

with the children one night

for mount jack leaping the hedge.

We stayed many a day after driving

up the M1 to the Shakespeare Festival,

seeing King Lear under foliage,

the actors in the open,

the audience warm and dry.

For miles around there’s scarce a bush

How did they deal with that one?

So much we talked about, your early life,

your determination to leave home -

at fourteen wasn’t it? your suitcase spilling

just as the bus to freedom arrived,

back then home to dependence.

Yes and our mutual friend John

calling you his safety pin-up girl

and throwing a loaf of bread at you.

He missed you, so do we now.

There is so much else, Margaret,

The old Ford at speed

leaping the hump-backed bridge,

the flood in the front room,

the shop you opened there,

talks about New Labour and the Liberals.

A typhoon is what our friend Ralf called you.

You had come to see us in winter

in dark cold Turku. We saw you off,

flashing our headlights from the quay

as your ferry departed breaking the ice.

Now you are off for good.

It was always good to see you.

You are mixed in with our lives.

among the very best times.

Margaret, you are dearly missed.

©Terry Hodgson2020