Poetry on a rainy day

We very nearly had some snow yesterday afternoon. A few flakes fell from the sky, and immediately polarised everybody that noticed – filling them with glee or dread. I might have murmured “it won’t settle” – and I was right. While news from the more northerly parts of the UK breathlessly reported an impending ice age, all the sky has delivered in the hereabouts today is a steady stream of depressingly grey drizzle.

I just got back from letting a friend’s dog out for a wee. She’s away for a couple of days, and asked if I would mind. I actually look forward to it – it’s a break from my day, and it’s a lovely dog. He’s quite elderly now, so doesn’t do much – but I get half a wag when he sees me coming, a begrudging trudge up the garden for a wee, and then all sorts of excitement when I make my way towards the kitchen cupboard where the dog treats live.

We always had dogs when I was growing up. During my younger years we had golden retrievers, and then during my 20s we had two enormous newfoundlands. I miss their characters, but I don’t miss the muddy footprints or slobber.

Anyway.

Today feels off, somehow.

Quite apart from still suffering with this stupid head-cold that’s now in the “let’s see how much snot I can make” phase, I read a post from an old friend this morning that caused me to stop what I was doing. She’s been battling cancer for the last several years, and has just decided to stop treatment – to enter hospice care. Her entire tone has changed recently – from fighting, to acceptance. She wrote a “goodbye” blog post. I don’t think I’ve known anybody approach the end of their story so calmly. I can’t imagine what her family are going through.

I’m reminded of the scene in Meet Joe Black, where Anthony Hopkins walks across the lawn of the party to meet Joe. I think it’s the quiet acceptance that hits home.

In the 1930s, Mary Elizabeth Frye wrote the following poem:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain. 

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night. 

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!)

I can’t remember where I first heard it – or who recited it. It’s among the thousands of other bits and pieces I’ve picked up along the way, and put away for a rainy day. A day like today.