Merryn Williams

My Cousin

She came here-not to rest-to sweep the stairs and
empty chamber pots. The gilded chairs
still stand here, the enormous mirrors throw
my face back as they did hers, aeons ago.
Down these plush corridors she moved, her feet
not echoing - dusting, leaving all things neat.
Somewhere her midget room, a great way up
these stairs. Invisible beneath her cap
to Bournemouth's guests, but I now who she was; my flesh, my blood, thrown early from the nest.
A small skimped woman when she was alive,
all siblings lost, unmatched at forty-five.
No trace, not one. Still stands the Grand Hotel
but now she rests. Somewhere in Boumemouth still.

Ioana Tudor

Merryn Williams

Verisoara mea

A venit aici – nu sa se odihneasca – sa mature scarile
si sa goleasca vasele de noapte. Scaunele aurite
inca mai sunt aici, oglinzile enorme
imi arunca in fata chipul,
asa cum faceau si cu al ei, acum milioane de ani.
Se misca de-a lungul acestor coridoare de plus
pasii ei n-aveau ecou – curatand, lasand totul in ordine.
Undeva se afla camera ei micuta, mult deasupra
acestor scari. Invizibila sub boneta ei
oaspetilor din Bournemouth, dar eu stiu cine era;
carnea mea, sangele meu, trimis in lume devreme.
O femeie mica, fragila, cand inca in viata,
isi pierduse toti fratii, fata batrana la patruzeci si cinci de ani.
Nici o urma, nici macar una. Grand Hotel inca mai exista,
dar ea odihneste acum. Undeva in Bournemouth.