The day that remembered itself – Jennifer Liston

The day that remembered itself
Sylvia Plath is buried in St. Thomas’s churchyard in Heptonstall, West Yorkshire.

Mossed walls tell a story
Of water outline paths
Leading to a source can
You hear the river rush

Tree branches like twisted
Veins or yes arthritic
Fingers always pointing
Skyward to light to light

No roots only ruins
No din only drizzle
Drops trapped on tongue on face
You feel yourself dissolve

Stride along stony road
Step aside for red van
Atop suicide slope
River ever waiting

Enter stone glass-lit church
Dour check-shirted man draws
Discordant bow across
The preying violin

This is a place to pray
I remember my place
Of prayer long since left
This is my chance to pray

No I took the long road
Up and down through dead ends
Byways kids’ playground climbed
Ten thousand lives to here

Now returned raw to church
Sylvia lies quiet
No man no violin
No grace no ruth no bloom

Only the arrow in
The red eye the red eye
Rain tap tap tap tap tap
I need to curl up small.

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#Arvon50
Arvon turned 50 in 2018 and to celebrate we have collected the stories of writers far and wide who have a tale to tell about Arvon. The collection is published in our anniversary book and featured on our blog. This contribution is by Jennifer Liston.