Cumulus

It has not been an easy week, and I'm not really focused on clouds or blogs right now. 

On the plus side, America demonstrated an upswelling of common sense and decency as Trump and his musky pals got their come-uppance in the mid-term elections, the Republicans losing control of both houses - though I fear the world will still be subjected to more fuckery from the orange man-child over the next two years. 

Then on the minus side, Adele lost her very dear older sister to an unexpected and catastrophic stroke. We were only lunching with her last week and she seemed so happy and full of life, heading off to over-winter in Spain. That sudden sad event has really overshadowed everything else in recent days.

cumulus

I've written a brief poetic 'requiem' as an immediate response, which you can read here:

Cumulation

At five on the fifth, her death.

She is one with the clouds rising,

rose gold and intangible as breath.

And I'm working on a longer poem, 'Lesley's Last Day On Earth', that will appear at some future date.

However, I didn't want to short-change you, so I'm also sharing another poem about death. Here is Ruth Padel, one of my favourite contemporary poets, reflecting movingly on the passing of loved ones. It's from her latest collection, 'Girl ' (Chatto & Windus, 2024).

Last Breath

Another angel     now foretelling death

like maybe all angels do. Last time it was just

her and the angel in a corner

but this dying is O so public

her son's friends in brace position

covering their heads    knuckles in their eyes

each one more private than she is

her body flung back on the bed in a coarse red dress

her halo a demi-lune thread you hardly see

everything ungainly    lolling head

swollen stomach dangling feet. No tights

no cover up of old lady legs.

Looking at her picture online

I remember my mother's hands still wearing the ring

he gave her    a little translucent beige topaz

I always wished it had more colour but she loved it

and the wedding ring behind    thinned and resized

through the decades. Hands so age-spotted

there seemed more freckle than skin

flesh sunk to nothing between the bones

raised veins where the warfarin-blended cells

have finally given up    hands that cooked for us all

so many years    wiped up    cleared up    gave us the world

now folded over her stomach in that purple fleecy top of hers.

We were all round her like the sorrowing apostles.

It was the mountainous breathing. It was the heart.

I went out into the February evening

under a moon capsized like a canoe

picked a spike of myrtle    a few snowdrops

nodding their fresh white and green

and put them into her hands

with a blackbird fluting away into the dark.

                                                                   Ruth Padel

Thanks for reading, S ;-)