Pregnant and homeless. Stopping at a country church, I had the need to fill a policeman’s helmet ( a strange urban Victorian law/myth? ). There being none, I scrambled into a long forgotten part of the churchyard. Moss covered headstones lay sunk in angled planes, barely visible in the damp light.
answering a call
marking my territory
I reserve a place
When the twins were born, one, compromised at birth, died. My rootless position meant that my only connection was the country churchyard where a piece of me lay outside the locked doors. There was a funeral. A white casket. A rosemary bush for a headstone. I never visited, only the old grave tender knew where it was and he himself has taken his place.
on this rosemary bush