The obituary notice of Joan DAVIES

Lines written in memory of my late mother, who died of Alzheimer's.

I often see her, still.
True, she is beautiful.
I wonder about her,
in her youth.

She gazes out toward the river
life’s journey before her.
We share.
“It’ll rain soon.”
Her eyes, green grey.
The faraway-look, again.

I often see her, still.
In pictures. In movies.
They are less than her.
I do not see reflections
in her eyes.

She gazes out through windows -
mist shrouds the mountains.
She laughs, shaking her curls
that spiral.
Cascade.
I do not hear the breath
in her voice.

I sometimes see her, still.
In moments,
as if alone together.
The laugh, the voice, her eyes, the breath.
Reflections.
I wonder as she breathes through me
if, without her,
this moment
will let me live.

Copyright Suzy Davies, Written on June 14th, 2024, when I was informed of her death.

This poem is "The Artist," and it's one for my late dad, but the title it could equally apply to my late mum. I'm sure she will enjoy "sharing" with dad.


The Artist
From my window, I see him.
Squalls of wind wire his hair,
charcoal snaps and smudges
between his fingers.

The tide churns debris
to the sands.

He reaches for another piece,
measures
the rocks,
huddled together,
where tide meets shore
sky, the water.

The iron colossus of the pier
grinds in the gale,
gulls screech;
he paints their feathers,
soft, ethereal,
ghost-winged.

Paper buffets
in the breeze -
he nails it,
flapping onto a board,
with pins.

His skin’s
ruddy.
He wrestles
with the canvas,
a boy bringing in his kite.
My words
paint his character
submerged
below the surface.

He’s at one with this
corner of the world.
Words roll
with the surf,
then crash
and burn.

Suzy Davies, Copyright 2024. All Rights Reserved

Memories of you today
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYvuOqXPPrI

She was stationed - Dundee - in The Great War,
and he, on Gibraltar's rock.
And he saw a face, never seen before -
the face he never forgot.
She threw him a rose from the window,
he caught it, and looked up, and smiled;
'twas a face that had him besotted,
from the moment he saw her - beguiled.
He traced her address
and he sent her
love letters
she read, all alone,
and when The War
was over,
the star-crossed lovers
went home.
Suzy Davies, Copyright, 2022.

A poem about a scene from real life that stays in my memory of my childhood.

"Bad weather is forecast,"

they had said.

My grandmother knew it -

the wind was unusually high;

slates crashed from the roof

in the middle of the night,

and gritter trucks were out

near the old toll house.



Bad weather is here,

but still we venture out.

The sea lures us to

a deserted promenade,

devoid of summer visitors -

gray, and overcast.

There are thunder clouds overhead,

but it may not last.



Bad weather,

and we cling to the rails,

watching fierce breakers roll.

The air, full with rain

as the waves crash,

house-high,

yards from where we stand.

My father, his eyes on the horizon,

encloses me in his iron

hands.



Bad weather:

my mother stands away from the

barrier, her back turned, anxious,

lest the tide sweeps us away,

like flotsam and jetsam.

Her isolated words cut through

the thunderclaps,

like notes from a song.

“Be careful, Ronnie.”

He turns his back on the waves,

and takes us home.

Copyright, Suzy Davies 05/06/2016.