I didn't know Wendy personally, so this poem's theme is how her life and decisions have affected me, through her writing and through her conversations online.
Wendy touched so many people, so I'm sharing the poem here. I hope it catches something of her.
I'm hugely grateful.
The only time
for Wendy Mitchell
You held my hand when I went through
a door you had to open years ago.
Neither of us could change our
minds because our minds
were changed
for good.
You added
windows to the room
and light poured in, and rain,
and sometimes snow.
Your stories and your life
built well, and now
your dying
fits right
in.
Small starlings, sparrows, blue-tits
feast at the garden feeders.
You’re among them, a singer.
One or two pigeons position themselves
on the grass below. They can’t squat
up on the perches, they’re far too big.
They pace, they track the meal you eat,
snap at the crumbs you spill,
the seeds dropped from
small full beaks.
The pigeons strut, puff up to claim
their rightful place of worth,
their awesome size –
but underneath
they weep.
I’m a pigeon.
I’m very large
and loud.
I stomp,
I seethe.
I interrupt.
I’m hungry
for the seeds
that I can’t reach.
I’m helpless, and all that rage blows
when the time has gone.
I survive, and now I hear your song,
You flew at just the right time,
the only time.
Dementia isn’t poison, you said,
it’s something to smile at,
something to love
something to spar with,
something to face.
You don’t tell me what to feel,
you tell your stories.
You drop nuts and seeds.
You share.
You love us pigeons,
our beaks open,
gasping, feeding
from the life
you gave us
through
living
yours.
