This Lydia Fulleylove offering appeared in this past weekend’s Guardian. In rhythm, it reminds me of W.S. Merwin. And many who have been through that long goodbye with a loved one will recognize themselves in these lines.
So when the phone call came, saying
that we should go back tonight, we were barely
surprised, we might have been waiting
for it all our lives. We took two cars in case
it did not happen that night and one of us
at least could drive home to sleep and I
followed my father so as not to lose my way
through the twisting lanes in the dark
but I think it was marked in my head
and I would not have faltered even
though all the time I was thinking
of my mother, the bones stretching
her beautiful skin and her left eye almost
closed, her face as clear as the rear lights
of my father’s car or the sign of the inn
where we’d eaten that morning.
There was nothing to do but to keep on
driving, the car flowing between the banks
until at last we were crossing the glare
of the town to the place where my mother
lay dying, though perhaps not tonight,
we knew that the end might not be tonight.