CATHERINE EDMUNDS

when he needs the silence

I've seen him at nightfall. I've sketched
the shadows beneath his cheekbones and wondered
at his hollow face, I've brushed the flecks of age
from his shoulders and steadied his hands

I've listened when he needs the silence
to study the lines that shape the path, I've stayed
behind him, certain,

and when I've turned back, he's smiled –
you see? he says:
you're walking around, go through instead;
no, no – not there. you've missed again. look
what I made in your absence

I look: I watch the cracks
in the road turn to moths, pagodas, poppies; I see
the fells and the dry stone walls, the menhirs, tumuli,
cotton grasses; I follow the flight
of children running through the park; and in the grasslands
I climb the birch, the strangled larch; and in the meadow,
the clouded yellow; and on the beach the lobster pot
bladderwracked out of the sea's insistence,
barnacled past confusion

you see? he says,
what you missed?

* * *

scratched record

he smells her, smells Tweed –
they say it's cheap, her new fur coat,
they say his staring glass eye

can't tell the difference, but he's
walked a long time, he sees her face
and in her eyes, families, tribes, nations –

he knew her before she was a virgin,
before everyone burst out singing
and told him to fuck off back

to where he came from. stones and poets:
he knows this! but she lent him
a week in December and he

has walked
a long time

Catherine Edmunds trained as a classical musician, but gave up performing when she was diagnosed with ME/CFS. Unable to go out to work, she changed direction and has spent the last decade developing her writing and illustrating skills. Published works include the poetry collection wormwood, earth and honey, and the novels Small Poisons, Serpentine and Bacchus Wynd, (all Circaidy Gregory Press). Further details may be found at www.freewebs.com/catherineedmunds.