I wanted to put this out there for my Grandad, who wrote poetry and who journeyed on from Earthside yesterday. Over the last few months I've visited him and observed his pragmatic acceptance of the true slowing down of his souls vessel. Over the last week I have sat with him and watched the life gradually leave his body. A strange process to behold. I have realised that each death is as unique as each birth and felt subtly helpless watching him drifting in a morphine haze. I read aloud to him a chapter of Adventurers Fen that describes a Burwell of 50 years ago. We both lived there, so much life and energy in the pictures painted through the lilting descriptions so pleasing to speak. Cherishing that moment.
I know my Grandma has been waiting for him - a robin has sat with me every day in the garden this last week and I have not seen it since yesterday morning and there is a succinct peace in place of the knowing waiting.
Safe journey on Grandad. Always treasured with so much love by so many generations.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?