Merryn Williams
Rumours
On a bedroom floor
it is said
there were massive bloodstains.
That house was pulled down
in the fifties; we’ll never know.
Under the boards
of a different house, three babies’
skeletons were eventually found. But no
charges could be brought. That evil old woman
long since dead; her slow-witted daughter vanished
– with some man, of course – probably dead too.
Those who’d seen her, out with her swollen belly
at sunset, questioned why no child ever appeared.
There’d have to be
a certificate, an inquiry,
someone stated. And someone got the message.
There was one boy. As he grew up they told him
nothing, but rumours, in market and inn, went on.
You escaped
the rusty iron bucket, a midwife
knocked, and stood by that bed as you drew first breath.
Your baby clothes
were folded in some dark corner
under the brier rose. Never seek to know more.
He was brought
to his grandmother’s funeral, smothered
in heavy mourning. Years have passed since that day.
I’ve seen her stone
in the churchyard, inscription
cracked by wind and frostbite: IN LOVING MEMORY.
I’ve seen a man
standing beside it, looking
thoughtful, not grief-stricken; briefly wanted to say,
walk away, they are not your family. Needles
drop in layers from the yew, turning brown each winter,
soaked by rain, discolour, slowly, the stone.
it is said
there were massive bloodstains.
That house was pulled down
in the fifties; we’ll never know.
Under the boards
of a different house, three babies’
skeletons were eventually found. But no
charges could be brought. That evil old woman
long since dead; her slow-witted daughter vanished
– with some man, of course – probably dead too.
Those who’d seen her, out with her swollen belly
at sunset, questioned why no child ever appeared.
There’d have to be
a certificate, an inquiry,
someone stated. And someone got the message.
There was one boy. As he grew up they told him
nothing, but rumours, in market and inn, went on.
You escaped
the rusty iron bucket, a midwife
knocked, and stood by that bed as you drew first breath.
Your baby clothes
were folded in some dark corner
under the brier rose. Never seek to know more.
He was brought
to his grandmother’s funeral, smothered
in heavy mourning. Years have passed since that day.
I’ve seen her stone
in the churchyard, inscription
cracked by wind and frostbite: IN LOVING MEMORY.
I’ve seen a man
standing beside it, looking
thoughtful, not grief-stricken; briefly wanted to say,
walk away, they are not your family. Needles
drop in layers from the yew, turning brown each winter,
soaked by rain, discolour, slowly, the stone.
Page(s) 33
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