Poetry

Two minutes

In the silence of those mornings I could
picture the last leaves fall from the beech above,
hear them collect in drifts behind the graves.

As if the cars had stopped on the tarmac
with hazards on and windows wound down,
to let in the still, as if they had at least tried.

Perhaps even the aircraft were grounded,
as I recall not one blemish on the
width of azure stretched taut above our heads.

Only the church spire and parapet
—steeped in light that made us all tall—were
allowed to interrupt the distant empty blue.

I see the empty faces of the parade
staring at the blank spot beyond their noses;
in Sunday best and winter coats, fresh pressed

navy threepiece suits with last year’s dryclean
receipt screwed up inside and a pocket full
of hymn sheets from all the years before.

A semblance of grief from embroidered saints;
on Whitwalk standards held high by the choir,
a keening November wind filled them like sails.

Simon Broomhead