Judith Frost

Returning from our Sabbatical in France and Japan has put me in a new place, with new routines and many messy house renovations! With my teenage daughter in school for the (almost) first time, I am delighted to have more time to write. I've been honoured to have my work appear in Time of Singing, Esprit, Glad Tidings, Utmost Gallery, Devozine and, publication pending, in Prairie Messenger.

I wrote this poem after watching my uncle die at home, cared for by his two sisters. I was so moved by the loving care they gave him, and felt very deeply what a privilege it is to die at home, surrounded by those we love.

A Home to Die In

"This is a home where people go to die."
Isobel

When I'm drawn out of my shell
soon to lie in satin, rise
like smoke, like a song,
what difference
where I wait,
peaceful beneath blankets
smoothed with gentled hands,
warm as sun-bleached sands,
or heavy with grief, while waves
of voices break, screech,
flap about my damp island,
plastic trays untouched
A disparity…
the ship's hull run aground
on cruel rocks,
battered, sinking
beneath waves of indifference, but…
I want to be the old fishing boat,
pulled high out of reach of the storm,
placed for the viewing
of this world, cut adrift
A slow settling
A composting down into rest
In soft sheets
of moonlight, high waters nudge
this beached coracle, receive
it on the hush of an outgoing tide,
Gently,
go gently
with soft voices falling
like distant surf in curl
of deaf ears, hearing

While I wait to leave you,
please,
take me home
to die

Copyright 2006 Judith Frost