Cathy Grindrod
At Heptonstall
We did not find the poet’s grave.
It rained: slanting in
over moorland, misting
the tops of hills
where a stone monument
stood like a guard
in a grey cocked hat.
The museum was closed.
The graveyard, crazy-paved
with broken headstones
formed a tricky path.
Inside the church, no guide,
only echoes of our guilt
caught up in endless silence.
In the village pub
we sat with strangers:
one with cigarette, chin-cupped:
one behind a paper, whispering,
peering from their corners
like the ghosts of some old story, lingering.
Even the walls were cavern cold.
A sleek cat sidled in:
minutes ago had picked
its way over graves, settling
now and then deceitfully:
had followed us there -
watched us leave for the living world
with a knowing stare.
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