The Call, by Charlotte Mew

Lent, Day 8

From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stopping so
We scarcely saw the sun or rain
Above, or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire.
To-night we heard a call,
A rattle on the window-pane,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us: Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or dark angel? Who can know?
It left no mark upon the snow,
But suddenly it snapped the chain
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again;
And so we cannot sit here any more.
We must arise and go:
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.

Loving this; speaks on so many levels to me. (Again, a shame I cannot seem to make the lines indent - it adds so much to the feel of the poem.)

Twenty-five years ago, young, with a baby, we answered the call and went and it was often dark and hedged about, but we left our marks on the snow, and we could have done nothing else.

Now I observe my Mum answering her call, and is it a bright or dark angel? Who can know? But she must go; for her, there is little choice.

My children are feeling the breath stirring their hair - we must be brave and encourage them to go, though indeed, the world is cold without.

And us? We cannot settle on our low seat beside the fire, tempting though it feels sometimes. We - I - must continue to be attentive to the possibility of being called into something new, uncomfortable though living with that is - there are still marks for us to leave upon the snow, I am sure.

(The photo is of the blackthorn tunnels in the Newhall Valley, with Something swift and tall coming towards me. Have been thrilled by their perfumed glory for several days now, and their blossom is a sort of snow.)