This poem was inspired by an inscription on a gravestone in Warwickshire:
‘She Being Dead Yet Speaketh’
just before I wake or when the dog
looks up suddenly from cracking its bone.
When my name sung by her voice
seeps through the wood in the house.
When I run to the phone,
thinking that it’s her.
Behind the confusion
of a stranger’s piped words.
In the blaze of the baby’s hair
as she sprawls beneath blue bay windows
I hear her still speaking
telling me always, telling me nothing,
making me feel, before it bursts,
Please, stop sending the cards.
She is still talking.
I am all right.
This was one of several poems I had published in the Belmont Art Centre’s Poetry File programme for secondary schools in Shropshire.