Mountain Ash
Michelle and I have been in England the past few weeks (April 2021) for bereavement. Mummy was diagnosed with terminal cancer eighteen months ago, and she lived bravely until she passed in March. We are grateful for her 84 years, and I’ve devoted two or three other entries to her.
Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, also passed a few weeks after Mummy. We join with all citizens of the UK and the Commonwealth countries in mourning and prayers; and we are sorrowful for the Queen’s loss of her life partner for the past 73 years.
We’ve learned this past month that grief in a pandemic is subdued. Muted even. With masks and social distancing and an outdoor 6-max wake during the longest of winters (emotional and physical - it snowed on April 5), pandemic restrictions suppress the ability to feel and smother expression.
Many of us have lost loved ones during the Year of Covid. I agree with Archbishop Justin Welby’s speculation that we are all experiencing a collective form of post-traumatic stress.
So it was unexpectedly refreshing to experience two grief “supports” this week.
The first appeared in a special weekend of reflective music on BBC Radio 2. It may have been 35 years since I had heard John Barry’s Main Theme from the movie soundtrack to Out of Africa. Somber yet soaring, Barry’s composition permitted me to feel and prompted me to express.
The second appeared in a special edition of Songs of Praise, devoted to the life of the Duke of Edinburgh. With choirs and congregations from across Great Britain, I was invited to join in singing along some of the great hymns of the faith into which I was born. Closing with a wonderful arrangement of Abide With Me, Songs of Praise drew me in to center.
The supports drew me into an inner silence, from which the following remembrance of Mary emerged. I’ve entitled the poem Mountain Ash with an alternative title Seance.
*** *** ***
You tell me
how all this came to be
Only then will I agree
that Mary did not call to me
From the rowan tree
at the easternmost thrust
Of the woodland trust
Mortal temptation
to run, to rush
Throughout the entire trust—
understandable as it is —
In ever-hurried life like this,
deserves resistance
One can always exercise
But to be mesmerized
is rare
As the total solar eclipse
so take some time
To ponder this
the breath of life
This renaissance
Of the hundreds
or thousands of trees in
A hidden bearsted wood
it cannot be
Merely coincidental
that I singled out
The mountain ash
For closer inspection
no, Rowan is a sash
Oft ascribed to man
But in this gentle
Interstellar moment
her spirit
Had another plan
An unexpected channel
to an undiscovered land
Waitrose green geometric
Fuzzy infant leaflets
Conspired to dial collect
from an unlisted number
In the thirty-acre wood
You tell me
how all this came to be
Only then will I agree
that Mary did not call to me
From the rowan tree—
(at the portal, near the gate)—
at the easternmost thrust
Of the woodland trust