|
by Neil Rollinson
|
He was so late: he went through the village
looking for her, checking their old haunts,
but the streets were deserted, the only sound,
waves crashing the harbour, a foul night.
He turned up his collar and went to the pub,
they'd know in there where she was.
But the blank, sad stares of the drinkers
chilled him. Where's Phyllis? he asked. The barman
filled him a pint. A silence went round the pub.
She's dead, he said. We buried her
last summer. When you never returned
she was inconsolable. Demophoon closed his eyes.
We told her about the war, that you'd be back
as soon as you could, but she wouldn't wait
a day beyond that month you'd promised,
she hanged herself. The barman put a hand
on Demophoon's arm. But look, he said, something
weird grew on her grave, some say it's haunted,
see, on the table over there; we keep some cuttings,
to remind us like. Demophoon noticed a vaseful
of leafy twigs by the window; he'd never seen
anything like it, the leaves were dripping,
as if a rainstorm had just passed over them,
the table-top shone like a pool of grey water.
Them leaves 'ave been weeping like that
all winter, the barman said, we haven't the heart
to throw 'em out. Demophoon reached out his hand
to touch, lifting a droplet onto his lips,
he touched again and the branches buckled, flowers
pushed through the bark in a bluster of reds
and oranges, flaunting their stamens and pistils,
everyone gathered around with their beers, watching
the buds unfurl in the winter gloom, the colours
igniting in every pint. Demophoon sat by the window
watching the rain move on the houses, he thought
about Phyllis, how the days must have dragged
as she sat on the headland watching for ships,
perfecting her slip-knots, just in case he failed
to come, which he never would; he'd promised her that.
|
| |
|
 |
|
