An Old Love Story

 A friend on facebook wonders, what is the event she’s marked in her diary as ‘My event’ for August 8. I can’t help her. I can’t guess what significance August 8 might have for her. But the date pierces my heart.

I think, ‘No, that’s my event.’ But it’s not even mine. It was his – his birthday. He died eight days before it in 1982. (Gods, can it be so long?) He would have turned 25.

When I start to have my ‘anniversary reaction’ during the winter months leading up to the date of my dear husband Andrew’s death, in September 2012 when he was 83, that is not the only anniversary I’m reacting to, not the only death. 

My two greatest loves, so far apart in time – how appropriate that it is winter that brings those deaths back for me, with bleak cold. 

Then comes the consciousness of being alone. I don’t normally mind that. I keep busy; I like my own company; I’m content. But at this time of year my aloneness confronts me. It becomes loneliness. It becomes an abyss. Do I hear a wolf howling? I shut my ears, make myself busy….

a sudden chill

the date of your death
arrives again

In the memoir I’m writing, I’ve been frank, so far, about the men I’ve loved. But not this one. This is the one I never speak of – though I do write poems. 

Very few people know what he meant to me. (Few know anything of him at all.) Those who do were there at the time; they saw it all play out. Some others may have guessed, but if so they have never dared ask. 

Really there are only two who understand completely. It has been remarked on between us possibly three or four times in 35 years. The hurt is still deep; and after all, there is nothing useful or even needful to say. We know. We know that we know. That is all. (That is everything.)

our eyes meet

he lives in the unsaid

our friend who died

There was one other. Just one time we spoke of it. We talked for hours; we said everything. We always knew we would. We’d waited years … and still we needed to get drunk together first. He has long disappeared; no contact for decades, no knowledge for either of where the other might be. It’s probably better so. 

Then there was a friend I made much later, who read my selected poems and asked, 'Rosemary, who died, in your life?' (This was long before Andrew died.) So I told her the story, in outline. She could barely grasp it. We have never mentioned it again. That was years ago; I think she has forgotten all about it by now.

did we exist

if no-one knows? 

– Zen koan

Shall I write the tale at last? What could I say that anyone who didn't live it alongside me could possibly understand? I could relate the facts, but what could they truly convey? 

I might tell it one day, but not today.

So was he my true love, the love of my life? Oh, all loves are true! And all loves, when true, are for life. Andrew, with whom I had a life, a happy one for 20 years, is the one I most acutely miss. That other, who died before he was 25 – which was shock as well as grief – has been the longest dead.

After he died, I wrote: All my years / you’ll go on being dead. They stretched before me interminably, then.

All those years ago, I learned everything about intense grief. All these years since, I have come to know that grief never ends, though we learn to live with it. 

I would have died to save him, if it could have saved him. I live on. I mourn. I relish life.

blue skies

you will never see –

winter sun



I didn't share even this very widely at the time I wrote it! Finally linking it, over two years later, to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #498

Prelude to a Romantic Weekend

Arriving on my doorstep suddenly

he thrust at me a bunch of roses, red

for passion, offered awkwardly,

suggesting now would be the time for bed.

My house-mate and her children, luckily,

were going out. I whispered what he’d said,

that he’d decided we should ‘break the ice’.

She winked and said she’d stay out longer. Nice!

We’d planned a beautiful weekend away

to change our new romance to an affair:

a seaside venue meant for holiday

where we could play, let down our hair …

but that was some time hence, he said – and hey,

we’d want to be relaxed then, free of care

about performance, revelation, trust,

and all those issues that might hinder lust.

And so we had our first time then and there

inside my double bed, too long unshared.

Now, understand, we were not young; we were

the later end of middle age. We bared

imperfect bodies to each other’s stare

and moved like adolescents newly paired –

like clumsy virgins! But we worked it out

quite soon. And yes, his bright idea was right.

                            ******

In twenty years of happy marriage, till

he left me when the angels called him home,

we loved each other thoroughly and well.

Reality was sweeter than a dream.

And memories can sweeten my heart still,

as if he never left – so it can seem.

He loved to give me roses. In my head

he still says: ‘Get yourself some roses – red!’

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Flowers, and simultaneously for dVerse Form for All – Ottava Rima.

Dear Filing Cabinet

You look so square, solid and ordinary.
A bit battered in places, the paint wearing off.
You are two, looking like one, side by side
so closely touching there is no separation.

This half belonged to me, that was Andrew's,
used in our own offices in every home we had
until after he died, and what was his became mine.
So I placed you together. You always matched.

And yet the contents are different now, re-arranged.
I made the occasion a big chucking-out
of obsolete bills, and receipts that even the tax man
no longer wants. Detritus of a lived life.

I spread myself, my records, over the whole space.
Some of it still isn't filled, all these years later.
There are gaps. And there are secrets. Old poems
written in code, by a man I loved before.





I'm linking this to the Tuesday Platform for 7 Feb. 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

Airman

When I was just a child, the gliders flew.

I loved them: fragile-seeming, light as toys.

Straight-winged, they looked like crosses in the sky —

a sky forever sunny in my mind.

'The War,' mysterious background to my life,

was spoken of, but did not happen here —

except for absent fathers, rationed food,

and handsome Air Force visitors in blue.

Once, when Dad was home again, we passed

a man who hitch-hiked, in a uniform.

My father muttered, 'Yank!' and speeded up.

Our wind-rush sent him sprawling on the grass.

(The war was over then, but some not yet

returned across the wide Pacific, home.)

Old lady now, I still see startled face

with big blue eyes and thick black hair cut neat.

What things, and why, impress us in our youth?

Those random threads grew long and strong, to be

fast-woven in the pattern of my fate

in ways that no-one could have seen or told.

Much later, my first love was Air Force too.

A thrilling summer holiday romance,

it lasted after summer's end when he,

returned to base, wrote letters. I replied.

But words on paper can't compare with touch.

His name was John, his hair was thick and black.

His hands were lean and strong. On summer nights 

he taught me passion, and he taught me well.

We spoke of marriage. I was just nineteen.

He was nine years older, drank too much.

As well, he was, like all his family

a Catholic — while I could not believe.

His father told him that we wouldn't suit.

He saw that it was true; I didn't, then.

We married others in the end — I soon,

and much mistakenly, but learned and grew.

I did it better next time, and the next.

He, sobered, waited; married only once.

For him, of course, it had to be for life.

I heard he married happily. I'm glad.

I thank his father now for saving us,

and leaving me with kindly memories.

I never saw him afterwards. He stays

forever young, the handsomest of men.

5/11/05 - 19/1/15

I found this in my 'Drafts for Reworking' file and decided it was working after all. I hope you agree! (Upon reflection, changed just two words.)

Linking to Poets United's 'Poetry Pantry' #235

Scene One

Interior forest: morning.

Tim is eight.

Walking through the forest

he falls, cries out.

A tiny fairy alights.

They talk in a new way

instantly.

She is in his garden.

The dVerse prompt at present is to do a 'blackout' poem. This is my second attempt, using the first section of a practice pitch my late husband, Andrew E Wade, did for his children's novel Jorell, when he was in a screen writers' group. (Jorell was already published as a book but never became a movie.) Below is the original, with and without blackouts:

Interior Forest: morning

Tim Simons is eight years old. Since he was five he has been obsessed with the ambition of seeing a fairy.

On this particular morning Tim is walking through the forest and fails to see a hole in the path. His foot gets caught in it. He falls, twisting his ankle, and cries out in pain.

A tiny fairy, curious about the noise this human is making, alights on a mushroom near his foot.  Tim looks up and is startled by the sight of her. He leans closer.

“Far out!” he exclaims, “Are you real?”

“Yes, b-but you’re not supposed to…humans can’t see fairies.”

They continue to talk but in a new way – by exchanging thoughts.

Now Tim asks Jorell if he can see her again. “Just call me,” she says, “and I’ll come.”

But Tim doesn’t. Jorell wonders where he is, and with her power to be anywhere instantly she is in his garden. Tim is seated with his head in his hands and a grey cloud swirling around his head.

“Tim!” she says loudly. Tim takes no notice. Jorell flies above him and drops a cloud of fairy dust. Tim springs to life, sees Jorell and tells her to go away.  He’s angry. He’d asked his dad about fairies and his dad says fairies are in books not real life.

JORELL

Interior Forest: morning

Tim Simons is eight years old. Since he was five he has been obsessed with the ambition of seeing a fairy.

On this particular morning Tim is walking through the forest and fails to see a hole in the path. His foot gets caught in it. He falls, twisting his ankle, and cries out in pain.

A tiny fairy, curious about the noise this human is making, alights on a mushroom near his foot.  Tim looks up and is startled by the sight of her. He leans closer.

“Far out!” he exclaims, “Are you real?”

“Yes, b-but you’re not supposed to…humans can’t see fairies.”

They continue to talk but in a new way – by exchanging thoughts.

Now Tim asks Jorell if he can see her again. “Just call me,” she says, “and I’ll come.”

But Tim doesn’t. Jorell wonders where he is, and with her power to be anywhere instantly she is in his garden. Tim is seated with his head in his hands and a grey cloud swirling around his head.

“Tim!” she says loudly. Tim takes no notice. Jorell flies above him and drops a cloud of fairy dust. Tim springs to life, sees Jorell and tells her to go away.  He’s angry. He’d asked his dad about fairies and his dad says fairies are in books not real life.

 Jorell suggests Tim start a garden and all the fairies will help. Tim asks his dad if he can start a veggie garden and gets the ok.

Completion

On being asked to write about what this date, celebrated as 
Halloween (which is based on Samhain) truly means to me.

Tonight

I would light a candle.

I would stand it

beside your photo.

Tonight

I’d recall

the daily rituals

of our time together.

Tonight

I’d set a place for you

at our table.

Tonight we’d feast.

If it were truly Samhain

here in the warm South,

that is what I’d do.

However, it’s Beltane.

The hot, hot summer

is coming. But

the way we ushered it in

my dear, is over.

You are ghost or angel,

more ethereal than smoke.

And I shall be lighting
no fires tonight.

Image: Beltane Fire Dancer by NataliaLeFay (free download)

Note: For those who don't know, Beltane is traditionally celebrated with sexual passion. 

This was written when my late husband, Andrew, had been dead only two years. I'm sharing it now, 31 October 2025, with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #201: On Halloween. Having written a number of Halloween poems over the years, rather than write another I'm choosing to show this old one to an audience that didn't see it last time. 

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writers Resource Center). Prompt: Completion.

Also a follow-on to the previous poem, which was in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Halloween, or Celebrating the Dead.

I Want

I want
him always here, and
I want my aloneness.

I think
in case he goes first
I’ll ask him to haunt me

but not
when I’m meditating
or writing a poem.

Today
I also want St Kilda
to win the Grand Final repeat.*


*Aussie Rules. Playing off after a draw last week. 
(They didn't win, though.)

30 Poems in 30 days, 2010 19
Prompt: A poem in which you discuss
three things that you or your persona wants.

Memory

He has written the story
of our first meeting.
I would write it
a different way,
altering the details.


30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 16
Prompt: A poem that includes something that malfunctions or breaks down.

Familiarity

I keep feeling as though
he’s in bed already,
waiting for me as usual.
Maybe in the hospital
he is dreaming he’s here?



30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 7
Prompt: A poem that involves a long-term relationship.

(Also I was keen to try a form I’ve just found out about, the gogyohka.)

Consequential

It was a consequence
of falling into the bathtub
(empty at the time)
and sliding down
and hitting his head.

And that was a consequence
(they think) of low blood pressure
just then, but we are more inclined
to deem it a consequence
of the codeine they prescribed
for his inexplicable back pain.

They told us it could
make him dizzy, make him
unsteady on his feet.
But I never thought
it would be so sudden.

As a consequence
he’s been in hospital 24 hours
and no-one is any closer
to knowing what’s the matter —
only what’s not. Well,
that’s something, I suppose.

I want him to come home
now, and he wants that too.
The doctor’s busy, hasn’t called.
I’d like to discharge him myself
but the consequences....


30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 5
Prompt: A poem that involves consequences

In Emergency

The nurse can’t find a good vein for the drip.
They’re slippery, she says: they roll about.
Eventually the doctor does it.

My shoulders feel crushed under pain.
I swallow back the vomit in my throat.
My mind goes blank; I nod off.

He too, full length on the trolley,
has closed his eyes. He is pale
but starting to recover some colour.

The hours pass. He must have a scan.
They need to check for bleeding in the brain.
They‘re sending him up to Tweed for that.

I go home, eat lunch without tasting it,
phone. He has been moved finally, yes.

I do some chores. I phone Tweed.

He has arrived. The scan has been ordered.
It may take up to two hours, but
by all means phone earlier, they say.

He fell this morning, slid into the bathtub
after he came out of the shower. Then he blacked out
over breakfast. His head bashed and bounced.

The headache was fierce but brief.
He yelled, slurring his words like a spastic.
I called the ambulance. He didn’t argue.

Nothing now to do but wait,
him up there and me back here.
Will he be home tonight? I don’t know.


30 Poems in 30 days, 2010: 3
Prompt: A poem about waiting for a specific event

Siesta Time

He lies at the bedroom door
on guard like a dog —
my black cat.

My husband,
napping, rests secure
this overcast afternoon.

It’s an indoor kind of day:
light rain this morning,
dark sky now.

(Last night’s moon
was full but unseen.
Only the cats went outside.)

Happiness is a warm house,
with my man in it
and the cats,

peacefully
stretched out and snoozing,
while I make a new poem.


8 Days of Happiness: 3 / Six Sentences

The Helpers

In the waiting room one white-haired woman
has a walking-stick painted from handle to tip
in a garden of florals, pretty as a summer dress.

Another has decorated her wheely-walker
in big bright stickers, joyous as a children’s party —
butterflies, and her name: Eunice.

Andrew’s walker is unadorned black. It’s new
and has the wide wheels that are better on carpet.
I tell myself its plainness means it isn’t permanent.

June 26 2010

We celebrate Yule,
the full moon,
eclipse and Grand Cross.

My friends are feasting.
I’m alone
with my own magic.

I chose my own home
my garden,
my ways old but new.

Across town, my man
settles down
in his white sick-bed.

He shall recover.
One week gone
my old aunt left us.

I’ve scented the bath.
My new robe
is purple, hooded.

I shall go outside
take my wand
and gaze on Her face.

I’ll move to let go
the outworn
and invite the new.

Tonight we welcome
new healing
and a place of peace.

The Perks of Age

On late, lazy mornings
we old folk sprawl on our ample bed.
Two of us lounge against pillows,
reading and sipping coffee.
The other two settle against us, purring.
No rush to rise and face the day
for any of us —
nothing better to do,
nowhere else to be.
We can please ourselves.


NaPoWriMo Day 26

Evening in Tulipwood

The rain comes down hard
and sudden with thunder

the heat unravels me
I begin to blur at the edges

he has draped purple orchids
along the top of the window

I am looking for sunset
wanting it to flame fierce

between the two of us
are cords and tangles

dusk grows dimmer
and my eyelids droop

he is lying down already
his silence invites me

the rain dwindles
and the heat abates

shadows begin to play
along the far horizon

sound has all but ceased
and the light intensifies

Rosemary watches the day
blaze before it dies.


NaPoWriMo Day 12

Clearing the Space

He was pale-faced.
‘There’s something here.’

I knew. Even before
the sobs and screaming
I’d felt its presence.
Cold it was, and close,
as if it would enter my bones.

Instead, it invaded
our brain spaces,
turning us murderous
against each other. Until
he stopped and understood.

He sat, eyes closed,
exerting all his will.
I moved around the house
beaming light to every corner
and blazing it into the centre.

Then we lit the dragon’s blood.
Moving slowly anti-clockwise
we wafted it over the walls
and through the air; finally
around our own bodies and auras.

The peace was palpable.
We lay in each other’s arms
all night, no need to speak.
Morning and all seems normal,
but we know how entities strike.

Resuming vigilance, I rise
ceremonially lighting the white sage.


April PAD Challenge 10
Prompt: Horror

Curled

Curled against his chest
I feel ridiculously
small and cherished.


NaPoWriMo Day 11


Still working on April PAD Challenge 10. (Always a day behind with that one in any case, in Aussie time, as the prompts emanate from USA.)

Dragons

A Note To A Soul-Brother

Dragons, huh? Suddenly
you’re playing with dragons?
When did that happen? And just
what is this connection between us?

The dragons who come to me
live on their own planet
in their own dimension.
They cross between the worlds.

They are my friends. I might even
be one of them, from some ancient
past existence, they feel so true.
They are swirling around me now.

Is it this or some other mob
hanging about with you?
My friends are loyal, but
their tribe has room for many.

You are red dragon today,
you tell me. So you merge?
My closest friend stays separate,
though linked; she is midnight blue.

She is chaos dragon. I won’t
tell you her name. Well, not
in a public poem. I know them all
by name, and by their shape and colour.

I called one day and they came,
the first two. Others later.
Sometimes when friends need help,
I ask and dragons attend them too.

Phil, who wasn’t sure of believing,
felt the breath of his protector
warm on his cheek, gently,
one night while he washed the dishes.

I see that the dragons you know
present you with their images
in flames, or hunks of crystal. I wonder
who they are and why they come to you?

 
NaPoWriMo Day 10

After the Wine

After the wine and the tim tams,
after the fish dinner, after
enjoying our favourite TV shows
together — we draw apart.
Suddenly he is enemy, suddenly
he is complaint, suddenly I
am at fault and the source of his
dissatisfaction.

It is the same story after all.
(The wise woman said,
‘All men are different but
all husbands are the same.’)
Everything I dream of
will not happen.

What I want in my old age
is peace and time to read,
and finish all the writing still unwrit.
I want to create our home
finally, in comfort and beauty
and in harmony.

I want to be where I am
and savour that.
What he wants
is money.


NaPoWriMo Day 9