Ploughed Earth by Erica Jane Morris

I went to find
my grief, sat in a shelter,

the train delayed, put on gloves,
silver tipped on thumb and forefinger,

heard flashes of you,
a freight train rattled past,

my feet so cold.
On the train, I saw a river,

heavy with flow,
trees stripped, past thickets

of bramble, hawthorn,
fields of stubble, a chain of pylons,

a pool on ploughed earth –
the rock of the train, the black

suck, howl of the tunnel.
Lilies, wreaths had been laid out

on the front lawn,
the neighbours stood by

their doors. I had chosen
woodland flowers; these looked shrunken,

alone. The train stopped
by a cement factory, a hole

in the ground, sacks of hardcore,
a bridge sprayed with graffiti –

a question mark in green, white,
gorse, ivy creeping on banks,

a steep slope to a scrap yard,
broken branches, a red signal.

And at Heath Lane Cemetery,
your grandson, brothers,

son had carried you,
your daughter handed out

single red roses.

………………..

Erica Jane Morris holds an MA in Writing Poetry from the University of Newcastle and the Poetry School, London. Her work has recently been published in the Northampton Poetry Review and is forthcoming in Channel. She is a Principal Fellow of the Higher Education Academy, working on degree standards.

Twitter: @ericajanepoet