Castle Meadows by Katherine Meehan

From the top of the motte
I dream of bringing you here
to dream of history with me,

how we’ll talk about the few
remaining walls, the dogs on walks
and their people dressed as if

these paths are difficult,
Though they are, I suppose,
in some ways. 

Look up! I’ll say, The gates 
were here—the sky has simply 
plugged the murder holes. 

And we’ll discuss—were 
the townsfolk self-important,
the way we are. 

And you will ask, Where
did they bury everyone when
one-third of the place died? 

I’ll say, There were a bunch 
more churchyards then.
Eight or nine, I read somewhere. 

You can only 
imagine what you 
can imagine—

there is only the self
that can be known 
and that, rarely. 

I’ll want to tell you 
not to worry.
But I am worried. 

………………..

Katherine Meehan lives in Reading. Her work has appeared at the Kenyon Review, One Hand Clapping, Drunken Boat, Brittle Star, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Marathon Literary Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and others. She holds a master's in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford, and she is working towards her first collection.

Twitter: @kmeehan