the last toot

the last toot

 

our words were few and far between,

garden chit-chat over a cuppa

after I struggled my cycle up the hill –

its basket filled with her ‘essentials’

 

most mornings, she woke the village

blowing a ram’s horn far too loudly,

from the garden of her cottage,

 

three toots for the trinity

(adding a fourth if she needed me)

 

she placed coins under a rock

at the bottom of the lane,

with a shopping list,

 

“ink, tobacco, something to eat -

proper tea - not bags, keep the change”

 

there never was ‘change’

 

she drew the same picture,

over and over,

 

goat-black cumulous,

storm-lashed mountains,

barns without roofs

broken-tooth spruce

hard rain always,

sometimes ravens,

 

always pen and ink -

her budget didn’t run to colour

 

she claimed she had, ‘outlived her life’

“I’m tired, is this what dying feels like?”

 

she had a jagged history of lovers

but since she didn't care to add further -

it didn't seem decent to pursue the matter

 

one Wednesday early, three toots,

for Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

 

and one for me

 

in her dry-stone ‘cache’, a message,

“come up later at your pleasure”

 

I knocked, I called - no sign of her

an ink-black raven looped the sky

chickens scuffed around the door

 

the room was full of the smell of burning,

charred ink-drawings choked the grate

 

on the wall, a painting, new to me,

 

my bike against a fence,

a sunny day, her serving tea,

a white-washed cottage,

heavy fruit bowing an apple tree.