Mid September,

the children return to school

and before the fruit rots on the trees

and leaves turn brown again

 

I take my cycle, fold it down

And stow it in the luggage rack

of the Scarborough train.

 

I get off at Flamborough

and ride to the Head,

at North Landing

pick two white chalk stones

from the beach

and flat pebbles

fit for skimming.

 

Weighty

but not too much to carry.

 

I cycle to an unmarked,

anonymous track,

that only a hare might run.

 

That leads to a path.

That leads to a chine

that I consider mine.

 

A rivulet runs toward the sea.

And a stunted tree,

genus unknown to me,

overhangs the dribbling stream.

 

I mark each stone with the date.

They circle the trunk:

There are above thirty,

nearing forty now.

 

A necklet of remembrance.

 

Reverently restacking

Any fallen

and adding

sea salt fresh ones

to the pile.

 

The tree,

the stones,

the trickling stream,

a private sanctuary.

 

I sit on the bank

flick the flat round skimmers,

towards the sea.

 

The river engulfs them

Before they bounce.

 

I pray for unborn souls

Sluiced from life

ten years apart.

 

Each visit hugs together in my heart:

 

Two infants,

I did beget

but never met.

 

And past lovers,

Motherhood declined,

and the regret.