She tells me she’s pregnant
Her mother is dead
I wish she could be here
The little girl said
And suddenly flood gates
Explode in my head
Me giving birth
On a hospital bed
Me with my daughter
And my mother dead
Oh look at her, Mummy
She’s lovely
I said
*
© Gail Foster 7th September 2017
*
This time last year, at Solstice, love, you came
To lie with me, as ancient lore decrees
We drew the sun to earth, and kindled flame
Between us blessed the flowers and the trees
And I wore poppies in my hair, and you
A crown of acorns proud upon your head
How swiftly round the ring the magic flew
When you and I made Avebury our bed
But that was then, and this is now, today
I come without my power and alone
No sign remains of you, or where we lay
No shadow on the grass or on the stone
Another summer, and another ring
I am no longer Goddess to your King
*
© Gail Foster 16th June 2017
A rhyme about love and bereavement and loneliness, inspired by the loss of my computer for nearly a whole day, and dedicated to Chris Greenwood, who kindly mended it for me
*
She finds herself without him, at the dawn
A crumpled crazy angel weeping light
The cord that bound them severed with a bite
A bloodied mewling kitten newly born
He was the sun, that stimulated morn
The moon, that soothed the melancholy night
He was her inspiration, the delight
Of glittered stars upon the heavens drawn
…
She finds herself without him, at the well
A widow weeping willowfalls of tears
Of grief as heavy as a drowning stone
The silence breaks; soft rings a sudden bell
And on the solemn deeps a face appears
That whispers ‘All things come and go alone’
*
© Gail Foster 2016
*
Is this then all there is now, only me
And all there is now left for me to do
Cry ‘mercy’ to the unforgiving sea
And bury all the love I had for you
Beneath the sorry roses in the shade
Of yew trees, in the graveyard, by the wall
Let tenderness and fondest feelings fade
Until the day there is no you at all
Within my mirror, only empty sky
And tumbleweed across the arid ground
No answer to the question of my cry
Just silence; oh my love, in you I found
A heat too sweet and gentle to forget
Have mercy on me, love, don’t leave me yet
*
© Gail Foster 2016
from my cupboard fall
all the stripey flimsy bright
things I used to wear
some dull dreary mourning tide
hath made me drab as ashes
© Gail Foster 2016
Grey days of loss and loneliness are here
Sad nights as long as shadows in the deep
No joy, no hope, no gentleness, no sleep
No ray of light predicted to appear
Just disappointment, emptiness and fear
And sacred dreams discarded in a heap
By some abyss of faith too wide to leap
In ruins lies the love we held so dear
Wise folk will say there will be love again
That suns come up, and suns go down, and yet
All I perceive is darkness, drear and grim
All I can feel is searing hurt and pain
My heart, my fingers, too burnt to forget
All blistered, from the flame I hold for him
by Gail
*
Here comes Johnny Walter, the old geezer on the bike
When he waves and says “Hello there” there’s not much not to like
He is kind and he is funny, and he’s full of Wiltshire wit
He remembers everybody’s name and gets about a bit
For a man of nearly eighty his humour is quite dry
Never underestimate the twinkle in his eye
A Moonraker, a character, an ancient Briton, he
Who reckons that his ancestors lived in Avebury
A child of New Park Street, who heard and smelled and saw
The weary trains of soldiers marching homewards from the war
Who, when he was a teenager, learned how to spin a spool
And hung out at The Palace, and was far too cool for school
Imagine all the movies that he showed throughout the years
How he moved an auditorium to laughter, shock and tears
Fifty years of pictures, all those newsreels and Bond
Folk walking home from Psycho, getting spooked out by the pond
Folk snogging in the back row, swapping hormones, spit and smoke
The porn, the pot, the popcorn, and the icecream, and the coke
Johnny hung out with the Mods, and took a scooter trip to France
And liked to watch the ladies, with a beer, at a dance
Until he married Margaret; ‘twas as his father said
“If you take her to the bedroom, you will end up in the bed”
Johnny didn’t mind at all when she with child fell
First came little baby Michael, and then Carolyn as well
And the cottage, out in Cheverell, where flowed a little stream
Happy years of family, a rural rosy dream
Until the day that Margaret was taken far too soon
Leaving Johnny on his own, to marvel at the chilly moon
He kept calm, and carried on, ‘cos he’s a solid sort of guy
Kids to bring up, work to do and not much time to cry
But to this day he misses her, puts flowers on her grave
One could call him stoical, or practical, or brave
Yet in his quiet moments, sometimes, silent tears fall
Better to have loved, he thinks, than not have loved at all
Kept calm and carried on, and bore his lot with love and grace
Always greeting friends with a bright smile on his face
He stirred the jam at Easterton, rang all the village bells
He filled the air with music and with sweetened fruity smells
He’s still batty in a belfry, still a jammy sort of cove
You’ll see him with his faithful dog, with whom he likes to rove
You might think he’s a boy racer, in his go fast stripy car
He knows who’s who, and who does what, and where wild flowers are
He has grandchildren, great grandchildren, a garden, and some fish
He has the sort of life for which most decent folk would wish
He is full of Wiltshire wisdom, in a quiet sort of way
You’ll see him thinking carefully about what he should say
When he meets you in the street, and doffs his syrup and his hat
And asks after your family, your garden, and your cat
He has some little sayings, gleaned from years of Wiltshire lore
But doesn’t always understand what certain words are for
He can sometimes drop a clanger, with no malice or intent
And once he even asked me what ‘bisexual’ meant
“We’re all different” he says, “it just don’t do to be the same
Tubs should rest on their own bottoms, for the best chance at the game”
He is a loyal friend to many, and a much belovéd Dad
Just the kindest lovely man that Wiltshire ever had
‘Tis true that good things come in some unusual disguises
Like dear old Johnny Walter, gentle spirit of Devizes
*
by Gail
*
Up on Bride’s Mound, where the sky meets the ground
Circle wheels within wheels, on a blue winter day
Child of the trees, of the stars and the breeze
How much we love her and want her to stay
Waft of incense on air, words of ritual prayer
Gentleness, blessing, children at play
They who confessed her, who laid out and dressed her
Scattering acorns, wormwood, and bay
No dark corner spared in the memories shared
Of the pain that she had before finding her way
Rivers of sound, through the harp, through the ground
Diluting the darkness, dissolving dismay
Herein is forgiving; the dead and the living
Made fresh by the scent of a rosemary spray
Such redemption and peace, in her final release
Leave us free to remember and love as we may
We are all of us here; she has nothing to fear
Her spirit has gone from the bier where she lay
As together we stand, on this green hallowed land
Holding dear Kathy Hope as we love her away
*
by Gail
*
Oh, when they were alive we never said
The things we say about them now they’re dead
Too far away now, too far gone to hear
Gone, never to return or reappear
Too late to say how much they meant to us
Just hollow words, and funerals, and fuss
And sorry tears, and memories, and pain
And wishing we could see their face again
That gaze exchanged by eyes when last we met
That lingered a split second, we forget
That precious image, vague, so hard to find
In cupboard corners of unconscious mind
*
Why didn’t we just tell them they were great
Too late today, too late now, all too late
We had that thought that day, we didn’t call
What if we never called that much at all
Or when we did, droned on and on and on
No chance to listen now they’re dead and gone
And our last words, a blessing or a curse?
A dirty joke or elevating verse?
*
And what if it was bad, so very bad
Unreasonably difficult or sad
Too late to shake hands now, forget, forgive
For they have gone and we have stayed to live
To reconcile our difference alone
With icy wind and cold unyielding stone
With questioning, with anger, fear and prayer
And all the time just wishing they were there
*
They change us most, our dearest kith and kin
Lay waste the landscapes that we dwell within
Leave shattered palaces in ruined wake
Leave with that part of us they chose to take
Make waves rise up on ponds in silent glades
Blast particles of light through sunken shades
Part oceans with their leaving, break the sky
Leave fish upon the shore line high and dry
*
And even those we never thought we knew
The ones we thought were simply passing through
However long the number of their days
Do change us, in small subtle little ways
Make dust prints on the table in the hall
Leave crumbs on plates, and scuff marks on the wall
Blow gentle breezes soft through window crack
That whisper ‘I am never coming back’
*
The more we loved the more we miss, the more
We yearn for some strange loophole in the law
Unwilling to concede the battle lost
To pay for love, and ever count the cost
We search in dream, in lonely mountain walk
For one last touch, for one last quiet talk
And briefly, in the corner of our eye
We see them come, and go, and wave goodbye
*
At every funeral we stand and swear
That next time we will say how much we care
Say that we love them, call them on the phone
To let them know that they are not alone
And every time we fail and forget
That well intentioned heartfelt course we set
I loved you, did you know that, tell me true?
Unanswered echoes coming back at you
Dark holes within the soul and endless night
Bright angels lost in distant blinding light
The empty vase, the upturned empty chair
Deep lesions of the heart and songs in air
*
by Gail
*
They never went to war; they stayed at home
The young, the old, the unwell and the dead
The women who were not allowed to roam
The men who tilled the fields and baked the bread
Those sat in darkness waiting for the rap
Of letterbox, and soft white feather fall
The silence broken by a dripping tap
Dark shadows cast by street lamps on the wall
The little lads who ran behind the train
That took their fathers off to certain death
Who waved until their arms ached in the rain
Who ran until their lungs ran out of breath
Old men who yearned for youth; just one more chance
To feel the blood flow, hear the battle cry
To wear the uniform and take a stance
To stand with other men, to fight and die
The crippled and the mad, the deaf, the blind
Escaped the fate of many thousand men
Some angry that they had been left behind
Some thankful that they’d never fight again
Women, who with their sleeves rolled ploughed the land
Lit candles, raised the children, hid their tears
Made ammunitions with a careful hand
Kept watch and saved the night time for their fears
So many stayed at home, and stayed alive
And suffered pain and loss, regret and guilt
That they were left, that they were to survive
Within the house such sacrifice had built
Their many names are not inscribed on stone
Those sorrowed souls, so haunted by war’s ghost
Were left to stand and mourn the dead alone
Listening to the trumpet sound the post
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 