The Letter

BY ELIZABETH RIDDELL

I take my pen in hand
there was a meadow
Beside a field of oats, beside a wood,
Beside a road, beside a day spread out
Green at the edges, yellow at the heart.
The dust lifted a little, a finger’s breadth,
The word of the wood pigeon traveled slow,
A slow half pace behind the tick of time.

To tell you I am well, and thinking of you
And of the walk through the meadow,
and of another walk
Along the neat piled ruin of the town
Under a pale heaven, empty of all but death
And rain beginning. The river ran beside.

It has been a long time since I wrote. I have no news.
I put my head between my hands and hope
My heat will choke me. I put out my hand
To touch you and touch air. I turn to sleep
And find a nightmare, hollowness and fear.

And by the way, I have had no letter now
For eight weeks, it must be
a long eight weeks,
Because you have nothing to say, nothing at all,
Not even to record your emptiness
Or guess what’s to become of you without love.

I know you have cares,
Ashes to shovel, broken glass to mend
And many a cloth to patch before the sunset.

Write to me soon, and tell me how you are.
If you still tremble, sweat and glower, still stretch
A hand for me at dusk, play me the tune,
Show me the leaves and towers, the lamb, the rose.

Because I always wish to hear of you
And feel my heart swell, and the blood run out
At the ungraceful syllable of your name
Said through the scent of stocks, the little snore of fire,
The shoreless waves of symphony, the murmuring night.

I will end this letter now. I am yours with love.
Always with love, with love.