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July 1, 2012, vol 8, no 2

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Joanne Watcyn-Jones


Home Ground

We land at Heathrow at five a.m., the sun already rising in a cloudfree sky. It is twenty-four years since returning to the country of my birth: my oldest childhood friend has lost her partner. We have flown back to lend our hands, offer our hearts.

wild grey hair
she waits outside
her empty home

I search my old friend's eyes for ... grief? Masking her pain, it is we who are at a loss. Words inadequate, we walk her terriers, feed the horses. Busy ourselves.

unblemished
the bluebell glades
of my youth

After sunset, wine flows before my friend's tears. Later, we put the hens to bed. Dim the lights. Prepare for a new day.

in her window box
lily of the valley
from his grave




crane