A beautiful thing about a woman’s body Is that her children are born with her

A beautiful thing about a mother’s mother Is that she gives birth to her grandchildren too

Is that why you loved me doubly? Extra gentleness, extra generosity Extra patience in frustration Extra butter on the plate Extra cream on the crumble

You have known me for so long You waited for me and asked for me And I arrived as your own mother faded

Your hopes were always for my happiness For my joy, for my serenity For my depth of living, for my vibrancy For my experience, for my creation For sunshine, rainbows and flowers For puddle splashing forever

When I feel I am not doing enough, earning enough, successful enough, being enough, I remember you stroking my forehead at bedtime Renting the same VHS 10 times Cooking golden potatoes on Sundays Holding my hand Me holding yours The way you tell me you love me No ‘but’, no ‘because’ Just love.

Id love feedback on structure in particular, and I guess also how it made you feel.

As you may have worked out, this poem is about my grandmother who passed away a few years ago. It has little structure, it’s kind of all over the place. I’ll need to go back to update to make it work but I think that’s what grief does to you.

My very dearest Tilly,

You know I would never normally write so frequently, and surely only if something noteworthy has cropped up but let me tell you it has. I will respond to your letter another day, terrible news about your mother. My sympathies.

Anyway, as you well know we always summer on the Riveria, Bertie and mummy and me. England is just too terribly dreary and one can never rely on good weather. Garden of England they say Kent is - pah! Well they could call it the desert of England and it would still be raining more days than not.

No matter though, the Riviera always shines!

This year we are staying with a family friend. Mummy seems to find new family friends whenever the coffers are a little low and this year is no different so we will be with Major Lupin. Mummy calls him Wolfie - some little joke from when they were children together here or some other - and certainly the canines in his mouth suits the nickname. He’s an odd character in many ways but what a villa! And he serves a terribly good spread. Knows all the locals, and everyone else worth knowing too. A little lemon orchard on the land is glorious and you should see the view from my balcony. Glorious.

Well, the darnedest thing. Do you remember Rupert? He went to Marlborough so knows Boris but we met him at Henley one year. You’ll have read in The Times about the trouble his father got into - fraud! The shame! Well it turns out Rupert is here too, staying over yonder with his aunt. He is terribly handsome these days let me tell you, and doing well all things considered. Gold mining I think? Wolfie knows the aunt so we took luncheon together yesterday, right on in the orchard. A table was laid out and we sat there gaily, wine flowing and honestly the French know how to bake bread don’t they. I had wanted to sit next to Rupert but instead I had Mummy on one side and the Aunt’s neighbour on the other - Madam Denise - she is ‘old money’ apparently but I would just call her old. You should see the size of the rocks on her fingers though - woof! Bertie sat at the end of the table in effective silence, you know what he’s like. English weather personified.

I digress greatly. Rupert, sitting diagonally across from me, in broad daylight flirting with me. The cheek! Flirting in front of my mother and his aunt like that. Well it certainly seemed like flirting. His eyes are terribly intense and he kept looking at me and all around, a signal of sorts, I was sure of it. A little crease in his brow as though he were thinking terribly romantic thoughts about me. Wolfie in turn seemed to be staring him out too something rotten - no doubt he thinks I’m too young for courting so I’m sure that’s what his bright blue eyed stare was about.

I must get to the point Tilly. We were sitting there at lunch, eating and drinking and being thoroughly merry (though I could NOT understand a word of what Madame Denise was saying, my French is not all that bad and she really was sinking the vino) - out of nowhere a rainbow of a bird landed on the table. You should have seen it. Green body and a tail made from all colours under the sun. Hopping around the table, it seemed to be looking for food but never touched a morsel. Do tropical birds eat seafood? Surely they don’t like foie grois. It was hardly a pigeon so I wouldn’t have suggested feeding it the breadcrumbs. After hopping around for a few moments and all of us at the table truly mesmerised by this bizarre sight before us, the little bird seemed to see the morsel it was after. Mere seconds later, and my mothers’s diamonds had been quite whipped from her neck and the bird was 30 feet in the air and travelling southward.

Now what do you make of that? Have you ever heard of a parrot thief? Well I never.

And you think that’s strange enough? Well it gets stranger. Of course one does try to make sense of strange happenstances and so my mind goes to magpies and other such creature and perhaps this bird was nothing more than the Riveria’s version of a magpie. Well perhaps. Of course we spend the rest of the afternoon drinking more wine and eating more bread and informing the police of the parrot thief but of course they say ‘madames, ce qui put metre fait?’ And they have a point.

We moved inside as a chill dropped into the group, the sun setting didn’t cause the chill, rather I think it was the absurdity falling into us all. We au-revoired Rupert and Madame Denise, and Wolfie and Rupert sustained a long handshake goodbye as I continued to console mummy. As Rupert turned to leave I heard a tiny chime come off the marble floor and a flash of light. Which I thought nothing off as we waved them off but later.

Oh later. Oh Tilly you will never guess what I found. I am quite sure of it. I could not be mistaken I have seen these diamonds nigh on every day of my life while at home. And heard the story of Papa’s gifting them more times than that.

It was the centre diamond from the necklace. I am very, very sure of it.

And now I have it here in my room. What did that darstadly parrot do? How did it land on the floor? Where is the rest of the necklace?!

I will go to the police in the morning but I want you to tell me what to do nonetheless. I need some wisdom from my most sensible friend.

My love, in confusion, Maggie

The pine smells different down here. The needles are formless, they’ve become dust and earth and feed their sisters anew, breathing life into roots as they push down and out and deeper into the heart of the world. How does the pine smell different? It has a touch of the old world, a touch of rot. Closer to the scent of blood; less fresh, more vital.

I come here for the roots, the dark; the mooring, the grounding. I cocoon myself beneath the trees, gently shuffle further and further down. I too am reaching for the heart of the world, spanning eras. Down here this earth has touched the gods. Down here the needles - as they were - saw battles and love stories that ended long ago. And they connect to the air, they still have branches in the now. Here the roots hold the whole world together.

A lullaby rumbles low overhead. There must have been flashes too but when? That light will never reach me here, I am insulated from life’s storms. Aware but distant. That fire cannot hurt me. The growls of thunder meet me as a cat might nuzzle my hand while weeping. Gentle and caring but all the ready to bite for a false move.

The rumbles grow louder, I vibrate with its power. The water is looking for me, I can hear the raindrops now too. Each one a drumbeat, faster and louder. The roots beg for the water. When it touches me I will have to return to now. It will flood me out. The storm’s precipitate will mingle with my own desperate tears, it will push me up and out and I’ll face the lightning again. The past is so much safer, the dark in the underworld, it has already lived. It has lost and won and while not static, one can move it and move with it. But now is a lightning strike. Now is erratic and angry, and more beautiful but more cruel.

It’s okay. I’m ready. I’m here for you, storm.

A jug is a thing - made, not born It is held and holds Ancient on the inside Turned earth, Clay made, hand crafted Deft thumbs and their ghosts Marked by nails Pushed and pulled

A jug has a belly A jug has a lip, an arm, a neck It is to be filled and full It is emptied, happily, in company It remains empty alone

Urns aside, a jug lives Holds water, holds wine Pours life over and over Into a mouth Over a head Back to the earth

But the jug cracks Made to be used Now useless Expect nothing Expect no decay Expect no mourning Nothing within, nothing without A thing is made to be used

From the ground the jug came The jug returns Tiny creatures crawl inside Out of nothing pours in life

In millennia, perhaps, it will be found Every part examined An artefact, no thing Who drank its nectar Who held its neck Who shaped this lip Not used, now viewed No water, no wine Life on a shelf The crack repaired The absence is still keenly felt But now the belly can be refilled

A sea of infant hands grasp up their eyes drawn out to an abyss a dark void, out of reach, the absent hand, the masked visage, unseen, unseeable our whispers, unheard, unhearable God is dead, God is dead.