Border Crossing

Walking in the rain

you think of a hinge

that has been broken,

 

the grave of the dog unkept,

the solitary house

in the middle of nowhere,

 

your grandmother standing

waving behind the window

when you were young.

 

These night-time walks

have a certain aura, a certain smell,

invite certain metaphors –

 

clinker shovelled from a hearth;

an old gate held open

by its own sense of injustice.

 

Life is suspended. You eat

in uncomfortable silence.

Blood pills rattle

 

in your father’s tobacco tin.

Your grandmother’s necklace

is safe, hidden in your bag.

 

Sometimes, when you feel lost

and adrift, you go back

to that place in a dream.

 

Eventually, the pain disappears –

an old man told you as much

at the crossing.

 

At dawn, half asleep

in undergrowth, you recall

your mother polishing

 

the tall clock in the hall.

Wet through, as you are now,

she brushed your cheek.

 

You lifted and kissed her hand –

strange configurations

from a rapidly diminished past.

 

On the night bus you hear

her voice, soft and clear.

Once you laughed together,

 

when she found your father asleep.

You saw him through

a partially open door

 

sitting in his favourite chair

his hand moving like a wind chime,

occasionally stroking

   the dog.