We scattered mum over where her sister lay

My Father seemed smaller somehow as my Brother,

Ready to catch him at any moment,

Walked him out of the churchyard

Beneath the archway where he had once kissed her

 

The world seemed silent just for them

The sky had grabbed the clouds and held them still,

And the wind and the birds and the trees all held court

As they paused beneath the horse chestnut tree

Opposite the school where mum had served us dinners in the hall

And applied band-aids and cuddles on the playground

Then they collapsed into the car and drove away

 

I stayed behind. We needed to talk.

“I’m so angry at you” I said

But, of course, I wasn’t

Not at her. Not anymore

 

And so I knelt in the cool and comforting grass

And I plunged my fingers into the earth

And held her in my fingers for one last time

And I wept tears of pleading

And I howled for the dogs to hear

 

I too stopped beneath the horse chestnut tree

It had thrown its wares to the floor

Like a clown throws sweets at a children’s party

And I remembered then all the hours we spent:

Throwing branches in the air to reach the highest fruit

Hunting for the perfect weapon

So fat it looked like a medieval mace

Strong enough to kill a kid and cleave his head in two

(But pick too early and the stone would be soft

Too late and it would start to decay)

Then home to the mums to bake and pickle

And skewer

Vinegar drips and newly learned knots

The jousts in the netball court

Stampsy’s and “No Stampy’s”

(There was always a stampsy, no matter what)

 

I could picture a dozen kids

Watching in awe as David Hunt’s seventy-niner

(a brazen boast: no evidence provided)

Was obliterated in one almighty swing

Casualties were feared as pieces of shrapnel

Exploded into wide-eyed and gleeful faces

And the cry, the understated yelp,

“Well, that’s a Oner!”

Applying salt to the wounds

 

And part of me wished I’d scattered you here

Here beneath the chestnut tree

And I would have come back next year

And picked the fruit

And I’d have made sure I wasn’t too early

That the stone would be soft

And I’d have promised not to ever be so late again

It would have begun to decay