June

This poem was written for Beryl Graves and read at her memorial service at St Paul’s, Covent Garden 26th January 2004. It draws on the superstition that she and her husband Robert used to follow of standing in their garden and turning over a silver coin at the new moon. Robert died in 1985. Beryl collapsed in her garden in Deia in 2003 and died not long after. Yesterday I was talking with a woman who had known them both when they lived in Devon during the Second World War and was reminded of this poem. Beryl was a lovely person.

REUNION
She went out for a last look at the moon.
It was still there, as faithful as ever,
Illuminating the garden from which, as she fell,
The past rose up to greet her.
On that last day of being wholly herself
She, who encompassed so much more than herself,
Went for a last look at the moon,
And in that moon-struck garden
She saw some ghostly hand
Turning over and over a silver coin,
For luck, for magic’s sake.
And it beckoned to her who, eminently sensible
And brooking no nonsense, followed.
I like to imagine
It was something other than the wind blowing off the sea
And up through the orchard that whispered,
‘Sweetheart,
Who kept vigil over all my folly,
Who tempered the heart’s chaos with dignity,
You were the anchor
That kept the moon from floating free;
This way dear muse,
This way dear one, who kept faith above all others,
This way home”

BP