Mementovitae Poem by Don Pearson

The cottages down the hill
Are lit already as dusk approaches
And the white shrouds of snow offer
The only redemption
From the gloom.
The silhouette of the village
Seems unchanged by the years,
Against the lesser darkness of the moor.
The church is also familiar,
Presiding still,
As it has for centuries
Over fleeting lives,
Waiting patiently
For their arrival
Here in the cemetery.
We stand muffled against the wind,
Stamping our feet on the ground,
Imagining that this offers
Some resistance to the cold.


Why have I come?
After all these decades
There was no obligation
Except to myself.
Not to her,
For she is dead,
Not to her memory
For it is no more,
Only to my memory of her
And to a memory of myself as I was
That I would not disappoint.

Informed only by the letter
From another exile,
One who had kept in touch,
I would not be expected,
Not missed, not welcomed
Would be all but unremembered,
In my former home.

I am apart from the others,
Freed from interaction
By time, displacement
And lack of recognition,
Subject only to glances
And whispering enquiry.

Those responsible are long interred,
Except for one,
Here as I had known
That he must be,
Central to this mourning
As to mine.
He looks briefly once or twice,
Then stares as I fix upon him,
Sees for the first time
No casual visitor
But a shade to the wakeful night.

He turns away,
Speaks to those near him,
Anxious to depart
Now that all is finished.
He hesitates as he passes,
As if he believes
That he might speak to me,
Then climbs into the waiting car.

I remain motionless, undecided,
Until my eyes begin to water
In the chill air and the darkness.

31st July 2012