Hiraeth, a word for longing For a home that never was, or no longer exists Her stones, her father’s stones Stones in her hands, stones in the garden Stones that remain long after we are gone She sat there, weak in her legs Lavender, blankets, garden chair I asked: “When do you cut lavender?” She said: “In spring” – I had cut it in autumn She was right She told me of her husband, Of how he made his mother accept her “I am the woman he loves, And she must treat me properly” I heard it straight into my face I have been loved, and I have loved Stones on strings, stones in pots, stones everywhere I built a wall, my stone wall The world’s rare flowers grow in the bushes, not the tidy gardens Older women I’ve met in care All carry something unresolved Anger, sorrow, words never said aloud Judged, subdued, the scapegoats of women Vilhem – a beautiful name, she said The withered anemones in the cityscape She cut her fingers with pruning shears Denied education as a girl I have been one of them I took my book and left It wasn’t loss, it was peace I have been loved, and I have loved Stones on strings, stones in pots, stones everywhere I built a wall, my stone wall The world’s rare flowers grow in the bushes, not the tidy gardens Hiraeth… longing… For a home that never was, or no longer exists Peace in the leaving, strength in the stones I carry them, I carry them… Lavender in spring Her stones remain Love remains Peace remains
