From Whence She Came
To look back, behind the curtain
Before your heart beat a certain
Proof of 'when' you are,
Is the former marrow memories of
To feel the soft stab truth
In generational proof
Of 'who' you really are
Issues forth lush visitations
Of mind attic.
I dream of, and know my forebears
And find them within the borders
Of the places where they lived.
The Fowlers and the Wraggs
Ghosting memories flag
In seeing what was home.
Today, Spring Cottage, Winson
Where my father's heart beat crimson
Courting village scene with my mother.
I could almost hear my
grandfather's clock still
(Dad, the swifts nest still in roof tiles.
At gardens end the spring still greets the Coln,
Runs its sedentary dappled path
Of ache swallow dipping lushness,
As of yesteryear).
And on, to Lower Slaughter
A house that held three daughters
Ronald Fowler ensnared there.
He chose gentle Florence
Over bolder, older Ada.
The same clock chimed years
Near that stream.
(And Ada, Flo! Children still dip toes
And paddle in the water, merriment of laughing
Faces as ducks sentinel like stalkers
And the mill wheel turns
At Slaughter, as it ever did).
And home still knows my bones when shown
Knows where home has been, though unknown
Years past before me here.
In my marrow, soul seeding DNA
I was there.