That morning when the sun rose
I was happy, then I opened the lock
Of memory and cried. I gained the top rung
Only to face an endless no and fall
Into the blank, imagining the flies
Above my body broken in two.
The guilty book, its letters in rows
Ages me, like a tree in the fall
I die without ever a bell being rung
And nobody knowing. At the edge of the loch
Do you dwell upon it too
And sigh as the swan further away flies?
Would you wish for a lock
Of my hair when it is out of sight, to
Remember? No, comfort yourself with the Fall
And know you’re right, hands unwrung,
No tears. And so withering our rose
Dies, and the swan no longer flies.

by Ruth Delwhirst