Visiting Martha

There was an old, rather cracked flower pot in the back garden,

I noticed it as we settled down for a nice cup of tea;

(served in fine bone china naturally.)

"That's a bit like me," she said, catching my glance,

then she smiled and the sun came out.

"but the forget-me nots still come up every year,

they have no fear of tomorrows."

We talked for a while and time skipped

as we sipped our tea, her motions delicate, fragile,

and she mentioned Gordon occasionally.

I'd met him only briefly, 

at a summer picnic organised by the church;

there was still spirit, though a little dimmed

by the years. but I thought, that like the

forget-me-nots, he had no fear of tomorrows.

She hugged me when I left and I felt the life force flowing,

an encapsulation of all that is good in this world;

and the decades fell away, she became a bride again,

Gordon by her side; rapturous, untouched by time

and memory shone a light as luminous 

as the love held in her unfaded eyes.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Down here in the rurals, (and elsewhere i quickly add), we have Neighbour Watch which inspires those who can to keep an eye on those who can't quite .. any more. Tis my absolute pleasure to keep two eyes on six local ancients.. but especially two ladies who must surely have once been empire builders! Have learned more from them that a hundred history books.. have laughed with them more than dozens of books, movies and tv. programmes. Plus, just now and again have walked home with such an aching heart. See.. a ;ong time agao realised that the darling ancients wrapped in all their moods are walking, tottering, zimmer supported history worthy of a daily hour's natter or more importantly, LISTEN.

Forgive me.. just wanted to vaguely echo your glorious and beautiful post. The sight of Martha, a woman who's lived... who still has memories and many so needs to be shared. Beccy, dear you, you write superbly. You can make the heart sing or the eyes mist over and fly the reader to a better, more real place.. Now, calming, stopping my blather, simply: I love and admire your writing so very much. .

If Martha is real, she's more than lucky to have you as a friend.. if she's a ga luckyu#'sa lucky woman, fact or fiction.. she is figment of your wonderful imagination, she's as real as can be. i don't need to know which... I believe such people exist.

[Chris]

This one touched me... seems many have memories locked deep that only empathy can bring forth. And the breath REALLY catches.

[Paul Bell]

When I was a kid, we lived above this old lady. Mrs Ramsay. She was right old battle axe, who hated everybody. But she had this fantastic garden which was her pride and joy. You certainly never entered it
As the years passed, and I became braver. I would help her around the garden. It was then she told me about her husband who died in the war. It was quite exciting for a kid to hear. Your poem brought it all back. Thanks.

[Samuel Dickens]

I don't I'll be able to explain it, but this poem makes me feel good. Old things--cracked and forgotten--flash newness, if just for a moment. Such notions are important at my age.

[Gee]

It is a good thing you do Beccy as many old folk where my mum live get few or no visitors, it's as if they are dumped by their families for the social to care for until they pop their clogs as they have become nowt but an inconvenience. Sad thing is all they want is company, a chat, cuppa, then they are quite happy for you to sling your hook.
I have the same conversations with mum twice weekly without fail. I get updates on her latest ailments, those of her fellow " inmates", a death count and then any other news, including that of the grey squirrel in the garden that has gone from being an anorexic on the verge of death, to a glutton that will explode if one more morsel scoffed.
Mum her self, due to her sedentary lifestyle and constant feeding, is fast becoming a king Louie lookalike, and I have asked that she lose a few pounds as I don't wish to put my back out when " heaving" her down the aisle. Her response..." you cheeky sod "
If you get a mo " Half way to heaven" is a mum based poem you may, or may not like.
Lastly, cannot for the life of me understand why more folk do not visit and read your work, it's to good to not be read.
Hope you are both well and prepared for the festive.
Apologies for waffling.

[Beccy]

Thank you so much Lydia. These are visits arranged by the church for older parishioners who have lost a loved one; or for whatever reason are on their own.

This lady is eighty seven and lost her husband in September. She used to be a teacher and still has a mind as sharp as a tack; it was my first visit and I so enjoyed her company.

It really was the cracked old pot/vase in the back garden that inspired this poem. It's the sort that in a byegone era it would have been used for an Aspidistra, or some similar houseplant. When she told me she grew forget-me-nots in them, the poem almost wrote itself.

Beccy.

[Lydia Shutter]

Visiting an older friend or relative can mean the world to them. They can tell you their stories, share their memories, and reminisce. For just a few moments they can be young again...and know they are cared for. Such a compassionate lovely write. Lydi**