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  • Posted on August 26, 2013 at 8:52 am

Do you remember the bats in the park?
By the pond, near the house, where we sat in the dark?
Before we had kids, when time was our own, when
we worked and we played and were never alone.

You don’t? I remember it clearly now.
I’m back, on my own and thinking it through.
The pond is all silted, a tree has been lost,
the ducks are still walking; but that is the best.

Some of my childhood was spent playing here.
The grass was much wider, the river was clear.
I grew and returned, and then I brought you,
it was smaller, romantic, some parts were new.

I once came on a stag night; he was tied to the tree
that’s as lost here today as where you find me.
I hated that evening, I was stray as a cat
when its owners have left and locked up the flat.

It’s the bats I remember, the speed of their flight
in peripheral vision and only at night.
There was privilege in seeing them, in being with you,
with the ducks and the pond, and a love that was true.

And do you remember the bats in the field
where we leaned on the gate and would not be healed?
When the hurt was withheld and we struggled to find
some way to express without being unkind?

You do? You remember it clearly now?
You’re back on your own—are you thinking it through?
Our flower has wilted, the three of you lost and
at least we are talking; but that is the best.

I may not return there, to the field, to the gate
where the bats are still flying all night until late.
But I have come home as a cat lost at night—
alone in the moonlight—but my memory’s alright.

If your thoughts ever turn with bats in the gloom,
and you recall times that we shared in our home,
when everything around you has changed, not improved
I hope you remember—I still held my love.


2013 © Andie Davidson


  • Posted on August 25, 2013 at 10:13 am
Monsal Dale and Viaduct

Your name is carved in the high vaulted arches in Monsal Dale where the viaduct runs, trackless, still. It is woven into the river, meandering, finding its slow rhythm in a wide plain, lying with the cattle. It is spoken in the wind, by the wings of swifts, caught in the trees and on every familiar track, played, replayed. Like the summer heat, cupped and held in this green bowl, you can never be absent, because you have been so present. And here I am, a guest. Why is my name not known, as yours? Not spoken with love in…