Donald McColl was my Great Aunt Annie's beau. After he died, she never married, remaining a spinster all her life. She would have been such a good mother, but had to make do with being a 'favourite auntie' instead. She kept in touch with his family her entire life. I visited his grave on her behalf (after she was dead) and left a bouquet on his grave. I took one flower from it to take back to Scotland to place on her grave. I wrote a poem about the experience and have put two versions of it below (English and Scots). I have been back to his grave since, when my little girl was two. For Annie Like thyme clinging to a wall, you stayed in her heart, just as she does mine. No earth for roots, yet you held tight scenting her every day with thoughts of you: memories of a time before the war, dreams of what would not be. So I had my hadj laid out: as she lies alone in a spinster’s grave, I’d visit you on her behalf, hand-delivering a flower that was nearly eighty years in the growing. Train trip dreich as her life without you, showed soggy glimpses of French countryside: an age-worn tapestry knotted with cemeteries where silver warp of stones glitter through grassy weft. At Arras I took a taxi, cold and damp. Wipers ticked their metronome, counting time for a song no longer sung. Side-trip to an unknown florist, marble mausoleum crammed with blooms, their colours November-dimmed. Then the rain beating on your gravestone, as it must do hers, crooning the same dirge for you both. I took out one rose, put it safe to carry home to where she lies in her layer above the Clyde. Fur Annie Lik thyme clingin tae a wa ye bidet in hur hert jist as she dis me. Nae mool fur ruits, yet ye hauden hard scentin ilka day wi thochts o ye; mindins o a time afore the war, dreams o whit wudnae be. Sae Ah hud ma hadj laid oot, visit ye fur hur as couldnae, noo she’s deed as Jenkins hen, pit a wee flooer anent yer stane that wis near eighty year in the growin. Train trip dreich as hur life athoot ye, Ah cam at lang lenth tae Arras, its land knottet wi graveyairds, whaur silver warp o stanes glitter throu grassy waft. Taxi ride, caul an damp, wipers knickit thir metronome coontin time fur a sang nae langer sung. Then the rain beatin on yer stane, as it mun dae hurs, croonin the same coronach fur ye baith. Yin bloom, Ah taen oot, pit it sauf tae cairrie hame tae whaur she lies in her lair abuin the Clyde.

Rowena Love