by John Statham
I can direct your tears three ways around the world –
given a little time
and a good Staffordshire shower.
I am the hill above Maer Hall,
waiting for the sky to weep,
when I can wash your salt-splash west
to make its way into the River Dee and then perhaps
out to our neighbour Ireland, that brave host to pain and love,
or even far Americas, those lands of gold and ancient sorrows.
Though on my whim, some millimetres left, your tear will join
a southern stream reaching the sinuous Severn, flowing maybe
to hot mysteries of Africa or beyond to penguins and ice.
But shift those millimetres by just blades of grass and then
the River Trent will cradle and caress your future
to the lands of Vikings, tulips and the Rhine.
Life’s journeys must pass many watersheds
but few as wide as mine at Maer. Sit a moment on my crest:
my views are beautiful, as I hope will be your rich tomorrows.
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