Victoria Field: Three Poems

The Clearing

someone has already said Miss Havisham

yes, there’s dust

someone has already said

we’ll need to get our Marigolds on

bags of cleaning products line up like an army

we wait for orders

one—it’s too soon, he’s not even buried yet

another—just enough so it won’t upset his mum

the third—let’s put the kettle on

we talk of different kinds of tidying

agree some things could, possibly, go to the garage

others can be picked up, dusted and replaced

put into piles for later

let’s write it all down, in case anyone asks

is my suggestion typically

touching notepad and pen like a talisman

we melt into silence, each to our chosen rooms

the child, open-mouthed, fetches and carries on command

receipts from Tescos, used stamps, birthday cards

images from magazines, bits of wool, grass, shells with holes

theatre tickets, gallery tickets, programmes

Virgin Marys, owls, candles, unopened books still bagged

what seem like gifts already bought for a Christmas he wouldn’t see

a buried letter sent from me

Victoria Field

Sabbath Poem

after Wendell Berry

World, I’m asking you for quietude,

not silence. I’m happy with the hum

of insects, trill of one bird answering

the cheep of another, the rumble

of Sunday cars about their business.

World, I’m asking you for stillness,

not a total halt in proceedings.

Let the wind rattle the leaves, seed heads

bob on their stems, my own heart

keep pumping for a while yet.

World, reveal to me the peace

beneath this peace, the one which

passeth etc. There’s a garden

in the secret place in my heart.

Someone’s mowing the grass there—

making a path for me to enter,

showing me the gate.

Victoria Field

Tension

a tightrope that might go slack

the touch-and-go hum of machines in intensive care

brakes you hope will halt the car just in time

words as yet unspoken that must be said

a creaking tree about to snap

the silent phone you know will ring

frantic searching for what has surely gone

the trying-to-remember of a forgotten song

a throat that clenches before you speak

handwriting on the letter that never comes

Victoria Field