My mother forbad us to walk backwards.
That’s how the dead walk, she would say.
Anne Carson, Short Talks
I can sense them all, pulling away
from the shadows of their loved ones
late in the evening when everything
is cooling and lengthening
and light catches the upper branches
of the beech leaves.
The dead are walking backwards
down in the woods
towards the Calder River
and Crimsworth’s deep ravine,
whispering to each other.
Some are lounging by the water,
some are lying in the banks
of wild garlic,
some gather bluebells
to remind themselves
of the living,
to remind themselves
that summer’s nearly here
and soon the meadowsweet
will drown them all in scent.
The dead will comfort us—
shade us from all that heat.