Abstract
Blisters of rain on plastic wraps around the flowers, the curling flowers with their life peeling away steadily: upon such sacrifices the incense is in short supply. Flowers for a thankyou, for a last-minute birthday present for your mum, for an embarrassed girlfriend. Death, smiling and nodding, says, It was no trouble, or, lips pursed, it’s nice to see how thoughtful you can be, or else just grins and blushes. When you wake, crying, what you want – failing your mummy – is your teddy. When you go through the lethal crash barrier, we cannot tell you when it will be morning but we can give you memories of desperate innocence to cling to. Death, always a soft touch, says, Ah: sweet. I like it when you just get used to it, savouring the tears in the sodden fur and cloth. Saves you the trouble of getting up. At the road’s edge, we mouth like children, blisters of water on our faces, lips and limbs trembling. Left behind by the family car, we wait under the rain, over the peeling flowers, trying to remember why we mustn’t jump into cars with strangers. Come on, says death, no point in standing in the wet. And you can stop looking for more than fur and flowers, as if someone were coming back for you from beyond the crossroads.
© Rowan Williams (‘Roadside/Viaticum’ has appeared in Welsh translation in Taliesin, the Journal of the Welsh Academy)