I'm glad you were spared
this hurt, Elizabeth.

If you were still alive
I'd journey again across the hills,

let our tears be his anointing,
our embrace his burial shroud.

John was the first to greet me
thirty years ago,

leapt for joy at the news I carried,
startled a blessing from your lips.

I marvelled as he grew,
plumped out your womb

until it hung beneath your gown
like an over-ripe pear.

I remember the kindness
of silent Zechariah,

noisy chickens in the courtyard
and the smell of raisin cakes.

I remember busy prayerful days
overblown with heat

until a breeze sweetened the valley,
lulled you into a doze.

You woke to rain
sounding the rooftops

and your own sharp cries
breath-held then relinquished.

I remember the with- woman's
skilful hands cradling John's head,

catching his sudden slippery length
glistening with your blood.