ghost story

marjorie’s been living on her own
for half a century
on the old harrison place north of town
with her herd of crossbreds
and strip of oats along the creek

when she’s lonely
marjorie saddles her mare
rides to the neighbours to borrow sugar
or exchange books  
always needs some excuse
like she shouldn’t take time for herself

she’s a storyteller  
everyone in the country has heard of her ghost
shimmering 
between the barn and the well
searching and calling
charlie     charlie     charlie

marjorie says as how charlie homesteaded
on her place and when his wife took sick
in the winter of  eighteen
he rode through a blizzard to fetch doc miller
holding the heat from her forehead
tight in his hand
till the cold leached it away

next day they found mrs charlie
out by the well 
still   
in her nightgown
her shawl wrapped around her shoulders
and the dipper frozen in her sculpted hand

they’re buried together 
in the municipal cemetery
but she searches for charlie like he isn’t beside her
drifts from the barn to the well
calls  
thin as the wind whispering through the loft
charlie   charlie   charlie


  remembering

 for Bernice 1958-1995                                                                                                                 
        

the wool gliding through the needles 
was ruby-red like the cranberry jelly
she boiled and ladled into clear glass jars
gifts that carry images of her
climbing through the coulees
her daughters beside her
reaching for branches that bear
the heaviest fruit

the needles blended splashes of color 
with white
as white as the tufts of wool
gathered from fleeces
shorn from her sheep
turquoise yarn meandered 
as she reached for green
threading through the promise of spring
for each of us
as we shared
in her tapestry of life





         

he wasn’t my youngest edward wasn’t
I worried more about him than the others
because he was so much like me
too serious and deliberate
I see him his dark eyes sombre
each time I pass the hallway mirror

he was never impetuous like ian
ian who tried to enlist before his 16th birthday
no edward thought things through
he left our homestead in canada
to fight for england

trained in ireland
he was on a transport torpedoed in the aegean
he saw on hundred and seven of his comrades drown
before he parched in the sands of egypt
before he struggled in the mud of france

I remember when he was ten we went to dover
and from the castle parapet
he hollered “land ho!”
his eyes shaded with cupped hands
as we looked across the channel
to the hazy shores of france

I knew when he was dead
I knew with innate certainty
the moment I saw the blood from the rabbit
ian was skinning stain his shirt
spread like an opening flower

if I had known before that moment
I would somehow have gone back to dover
I would have pushed past the homeguard
stood on the castle parapet
and looked over to france to marquion
where the bullet tore his heart

edward would have sensed me there
when he turned towards home for a last look
in that second
before the final beat

                             Anne Slade

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