Virginia Barton


14 July 2013




If she could choose a place to die, if she had said: “let it be here,

the holly walk, by party field, beneath a huge tempestuous sky,

in sight of fields familiar, dear,

with bluebells everywhere.”


A blowy wind, and birdsong. Trees in June-time sweet.

High above this landscape, distant, clear.

Where sweet briar, hazel, brambles meet and toss in random disarray,

mid bluebells everywhere.


“Here will I wait and take thee, daughter, faithful child.

This is the place, the day, the hour when I am come your soul to free,

for My embrace is Love.

Your name is Mine: Christ-Christine, and you belong to Me.”


We who stop and linger, to hear her voice and see her face

and catch the echo very near, of tears and laughter, children’s play,

a pony’s neigh, and dog’s bark, and a dear one’s comfort on a stormy day

when everything seemed wrong, and heaven far away.


Here’s the bracken pillow, and the ponies.

Here’s the grey stone wall her dear shape sheltered.

And bluebells, bluebells everywhere.


Chris R.I.P
June 14th 2013



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