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Sunday – All Souls’ Day
I’ve just discovered and fallen in love with the quiet and reflective poetry of the English poet Frances Bellerby. As today (Nov. 2) is All Souls’ Day, here’s a poem in which the speaker uses the occasion to remember a loved one. She imagines them walking together, as they once did, through autumn leaves that are, “in their death,/ brilliant as never before.”
In this walk of quiet contemplation, the speaker remembers past walks, where a summer never seemed lost “if two have been together/witnessing the variousness of light.” Sadly, that light is now gone as they enter “the year’s night,”—the stream flows quietly now and a spider has built its web across an “an unguarded door,” with the caught dewdrops no longer shimmering (“dull pearls”). “We well know, darling,” the speaker says, that “what the small day cannot hold/ must spill into eternity.” Time became “full, brimming” until it could hold no more.
It’s a beautiful moment that tugs at the heart. The speaker talks of moving forward quietly, cat-soft, so as not to disturb “scatheless” (unharmed) dead. Words have become unnecessary. She imagines holding the hand of her companion, who has always been “leaf-light,” and in this moment she feels no fear. “It seems as if a mist descends,” she reports, “and the leaves where you walk do not stir.”
All Souls’ Day
By Frances Bellerby
Let’s go our old way
by the stream, and kick the leaves
as we always did, to make
the rhythm of breaking waves.
This day draws no breath –
shows no color anywhere
except for the leaves – in their death
brilliant as never before.
Yellow of Brimstone Butterfly,
brown of Oak Eggar Moth –
you’d say. And I’d be wondering why
a summer never seems lost
if two have been together
witnessing the variousness of light,
and the same two in lusterless
November enter the year’s night…
The slow-worm stream – how still!
Above that spider’s unguarded door,
look – dull pearls…Time’s full,
brimming, can hold no more.
Next moment (we well know,
my darling, you and I)
what the small day cannot hold
must spill into eternity.So perhaps we should move cat-soft
meanwhile, and leave everything unsaid,
until no shadow of risk can be left
of disturbing the scatheless dead.Ah, but you were always leaf-light.
And you so seldom talk
as we go. But there at my side
through the bright leaves you walk.
And yet – touch my hand
that I may be quite without fear,
for it seems as if a mist descends,
and the leaves where you walk do not stir.
It is a good time of year to go walking through the fallen leaves with someone who is dear to you—or even just by yourself—as you remember those souls who have moved on.
