These two poems were written after the publication of my book on Chaldon Herring, as people continued to tell me tales. The first, strange, episode was related to me one evening by Colin House, who had been responsible for replacing Sylvia’s stone after her name was added to it.1 The second story came from Chaldon villager Betty Miller, who had nursed May Pitman. May and her husband Jim were Sylvia’s tenants at Miss Green’s cottage and were blown out, unharmed, by the bomb that destroyed it in 1944. May died of tuberculosis in 1951.
Non Omnes Moriar, 1978
This village has known witches, some fifty years ago.
Now
hares leap without artifice
friezing the fields. Over cottage doors
horseshoes disintegrate into rust.
The old crafts are gone, it seems,
The villagers are at rest.
She was one of their number, the numberless,
her soul’s progress barred
and blocked by a pair of hinges, crossed,
from a whining farm gate.
She, May
Turning the handle, worn down to the metal,
through creamy layers of paint,
and you’ll find the veranda.
(That’s where my patient spends
most of her time.)
She treads those wooden boards,
Coughing, talking,
Smoking, too, I dare say.
She’s like a bird caught in a net
Tearing. Cruel in her distress,
Shedding her flightiness, her fine feathers,
She’s left the sanatorium.
Left it wordless.