Aubade
—
Sam Gilchrist Hall
She was mad for Jane Austin, as a girl,
I am told.
Her complete works displayed almost reverently,
in a little room, that smelt of potpourri;
Lilacs and lilies were a favourite of hers
— place mats, cups, saucers, duvet-covers,
all embossed with flora.
a soft, fragrant world of French sounds, and untimely thoughts.
❊
Far away from the bombs and the dark
Stories entrenched, bedevilments of the flesh,
As unrevealed as unremarkable.
❊
There you sat, much the same, as always,
With the curiosity of commercial meat.
Your eyes? I don’t recall — though they stared
Through the same NHS glasses, as you sat,
But looking just a little bit older, as they buried your
Husband of 62 years —
whether you liked him or not.
I suppose, you must have felt something;
you did not want to see him placed in the ground.
Despite it all,
as we misplaced the man you
never really wanted, but who persevered for
reasons ineluctable to recorded history
— This, I am told, is Romantic —
a regret, even? Or something?
How was your last supper together?
No
Or first breakfast?
No.
You stared straight back at me —
despite my repugnance for the elderly —
with wiry grey hair and an ancient face,
you told me a story from when you and
he were both children
— now a hundred years ago.
Though even then, at this point of departure,
you acknowledged that I’d heard it all before.
With a steady tone you recounted this
nonetheless, the last time I saw you, I think,
but Death, then, was somehow expected.
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Sam Gilchrist Hall is a writer and academic, based in Vienna. His first novella, Inside Virgil Caine, was published by Eukalypto in 2025, and his poetry has appeared in Masculinity: an Anthology of Modern Voices (2023). His doctoral thesis, Shakespeare’s Folly: Philosophy, Humanism, Critical Theory, was published in 2017, while details of his other academic publications can be found here: orcid.org/0000-0001-7976-4086. Sam is a Lecturer at Webster Vienna Private University.
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I am told.
Her complete works displayed almost reverently,
in a little room, that smelt of potpourri;
Lilacs and lilies were a favourite of hers
— place mats, cups, saucers, duvet-covers,
all embossed with flora.
a soft, fragrant world of French sounds, and untimely thoughts.
❊
Far away from the bombs and the dark
Stories entrenched, bedevilments of the flesh,
As unrevealed as unremarkable.
❊
There you sat, much the same, as always,
With the curiosity of commercial meat.
Your eyes? I don’t recall — though they stared
Through the same NHS glasses, as you sat,
But looking just a little bit older, as they buried your
Husband of 62 years —
whether you liked him or not.
I suppose, you must have felt something;
you did not want to see him placed in the ground.
Despite it all,
as we misplaced the man you
never really wanted, but who persevered for
reasons ineluctable to recorded history
— This, I am told, is Romantic —
a regret, even? Or something?
How was your last supper together?
No
Or first breakfast?
No.
You stared straight back at me —
despite my repugnance for the elderly —
with wiry grey hair and an ancient face,
you told me a story from when you and
he were both children
— now a hundred years ago.
Though even then, at this point of departure,
you acknowledged that I’d heard it all before.
With a steady tone you recounted this
nonetheless, the last time I saw you, I think,
but Death, then, was somehow expected.
Sam Gilchrist Hall is a writer and academic, based in Vienna. His first novella, Inside Virgil Caine, was published by Eukalypto in 2025, and his poetry has appeared in Masculinity: an Anthology of Modern Voices (2023). His doctoral thesis, Shakespeare’s Folly: Philosophy, Humanism, Critical Theory, was published in 2017, while details of his other academic publications can be found here: orcid.org/0000-0001-7976-4086. Sam is a Lecturer at Webster Vienna Private University.
Website | Instagram