‘nothing but hints and traces, nothing known’, things ‘not quite there, / but not quite inexistent, nonetheless’.
John Burnside
Do you remember the farm with no one there?
the stones crying out when the wind whipped
window and door; paneless, unhinged.
As we passed, the washing line waved
from the kitchen garden. Agèd brassicas
long gone to seed yet she was still there
almost there, the woman of the house
an outline pegging the clothes, gazing
into the hedge. There too a bag of sheep dip
snagged, emptied, yet no flocks seen.
Only a sorrel horse baring yellow teeth.
And guide book in hand we found the pub;
wary of the three-legged dog, bark and bite
ever ready, to deter all passing trade.
Instead an ensemble of insect and bird.
One 'For Sale' sign leaned heavily
and the silence of closure spoke
in soft, hoppy breaths behind the great oak door.
Then trampling all the garden's undergrowth
through the arbours, rambling roses
showing us to empty tables. We unpacked victual
and water bottle, aware of watchers above.
Faded curtains moved, a broken quarter light
puffing out dust, three odd socks strung across
the zig-zagged glass.
Do you remember these treasures
still? The lovely empty enclosures
of our intimacy, our threshold.
There's been turmoil since
a tearing grief with tears strung between
like dewy webs across an Autumn hedge.
This the legacy that love leaves, death as vacancy
but afterwards, subliminal to the solitary
those flickers in flame, a company of quiet ghosts,
and that most patient of waits
for reunion.
For Dora’s Poetics prompt @dVerse we are writing “Poetry in Liminal Spaces” –
PoetryPix 
Devoured this poem in one reading, then read again, and the imagery became that much more present to sense and thought, the exterior of this space reflecting the interior memory, what was and what is. The closing lines were more than satisfactory, just sublime: “death as vacancy” — a”company of quiet ghosts” — the inevitable wait, the “reunion” to be. Just a wondrous read, Laura.
thank you for such tremendous feedback Dora and for sparking the poem with your uncanny prompt
You’re welcome, and thank you, Laura.
I really love the way you paint this village, mostly dead, a ghost town feeling with memories and visiting ghosts, stellar writing as usual
love abandoned places and we found a few in different parts of the UK but then of course they reek of the sadness that comes to all couples in the end
Beautiful. So these are the ripples our lives impart. When none of us remember, these ripples do.
ripples in the wind blown sand, where the tide rolls – the limbic spaces we are and are not
Grief is a patient and potent singer back of history, washing every canvas with loss yet to come. Heart truths (the grandest liminal seascape of all) must be sung so and they are note perfect here.
Brendan you have been touched by the Celtic source of heart and soul – thank you for your epical comments
Beautiful poem!
❤
Oh my, Laura! I felt this one. This might be my very favorite of your poems ever. The memories and yearning are palpable. I can’t pick a favorite line.
very many thanks Merril for feeling into the poem – it came readily to me in draft so perhaps that makes it all the more palpable
You’re very welcome, Laura.
Love does inhabit a parallel world, where so much that is unseen, but felt deeply, exists. (K)
wise words K
I loved the wave of the washing line, to those who drove past when she was still there and waiting. The imagery is so emotionally haunting. A beautifully crafted poem.
thank you – so much can be seen in our imagination and such limbic places invite this
p.s. the passing was not specified but by foot as too much is fleeting by car
You captured the sights and sounds and silence so eerily. With a company of quiet ghosts, the grief is deep and renders our lives empty and dismal. Beautiful writing as always Laura.
thank you Grace – filling the limbic places by recall and poetic license! Grief too is part imagination
Very well written, Laura. Your images of the clothes line and tears like dew across the hedges are wonderful. Seems we can’t go back for now it is only a liminal space in our heads.
Never go back, never look back else we turn to salt …tears!
I like that!
Hi Laura, this is really beautiful. I enjoyed it very much. I reminded me a bit of Walter de la Mare’s The Listeners.
Roberta that’s a favourite poem of mine so I’m sure it echoes through all the emptiness of places I have passed
It is a favourite poem of mine too. That’s why I picked it up.
Of course, you drew me in with the abandoned farm, Laura! The woman hanging clothes, the three-legged dog, “For Sale” sign against pub door, and lovers waiting for eventual reunion…I got lost in the liminal spaces you explore so eloquently.
many thanks for losing yourself here Lynn
The way you drew on the beauty of things that once were, (are, still now, but modified) reminded me somehow of Robinson Jeffers and his very short poem The House. The first part especially—Jeffers.
I love the mention and strong imagery of the clothes line with the wash waving from the kitchen garden. That speaks so loud about life. And the horse with yellowed teeth.
Time stood still in that old house. And in the pub too, no less, where I think ghosts roam, trapped unable to exit. Because really, in all matters of the heart, love never vacates such a place and time. Wow, I was caught in the in-between of your beautiful recollection. Thanks for sharing, Laura. Wish I had written that.
so right Selma – even places we have loved in passing have kept that connection in the spaces
did not know the poem so will look for it – thank you for this and all your feedback
Enjoyed this so much, Laura.
thank you for that Carol
Gorgeous writing, Laura! That last stanza was full of raw emotion.
thank you – the limbic did lead me there!