A poem by Deborah Gaudin
Chasing the ghost of Elizabeth Goudge
Pembrokeshire Autumn 2007
I thought I’d lost sight of you in the wet
but your hair was white mist,
the scribbling waves echoed your pen
in their perfect, quiet constancy.
Extending a hand as your relict stepped
the grey chambered spiral of her home,
stepping over the carpet to take your place
in the window overlooking the bay.
Sheltering in doorways I heard your gentle
the busker’s flute, the click of dogs claws
on the wet shiny pavements steep street,
accompanying the harp of rain.
I found your prose leaning against poets
at the back
of the small stone book shop, a shy guest
rubbing spines with their dusty eloquence,
a clean taste in the mouth.
The hidden hills were full of others work,
no words of yours.
But your bones were as strong and homely
as the ancient village which overlooked
the distant grey slab of sea.