Sonya Tolstoy
Above the yellow candle flame I watched
the corner pages of my script retreat in brown
and black waves, until I could hold the sheets
no longer. I tossed them in the fireplace
mesmerised in the pallor of rising smoke...
In the cool of the evening kitchen garden
of Yasnaya Polyana, Lev Nikolaevich
lets me pick the ripening strawberries;
red juices staining my lips and fingers.
His workman’s hand brushes against my dress.
A tortoiseshell, restless, flutters above
a pungent sea of mint and thyme.
I touch a brass button on his soldier’s greatcoat,
feel the contradictory warmth
and steel of his grey eyes assault me.
And I am off down the slope of a haystack
into the writer’s safe hands. Giggling, girlish
laughter; he’s whirling me through the air,
in love with his deep, vibrant voice.
On the edge of abundant cornfields, hair
strains into the wind; my mare, Belogubka,
gallops in unison with the count’s white horse.
We enter the twilight of Zaseka Forest
hooves snap birch twigs, and I hear
my mother call, ‘Sonya, come in for shelter,
come in for your bedtime’…
I stake a poker through the burning heart
of charred paper. The edge’s silk petals
puff; gyrate in clouds of particles. Why,
why, did I show my beloved soldier-writer
this novice novel? In hope his love was deepening
like the slow drip of water
collecting in the rain barrel at Polyana?
Love is a garden of palliative and bitter herbs.
the corner pages of my script retreat in brown
and black waves, until I could hold the sheets
no longer. I tossed them in the fireplace
mesmerised in the pallor of rising smoke...
In the cool of the evening kitchen garden
of Yasnaya Polyana, Lev Nikolaevich
lets me pick the ripening strawberries;
red juices staining my lips and fingers.
His workman’s hand brushes against my dress.
A tortoiseshell, restless, flutters above
a pungent sea of mint and thyme.
I touch a brass button on his soldier’s greatcoat,
feel the contradictory warmth
and steel of his grey eyes assault me.
And I am off down the slope of a haystack
into the writer’s safe hands. Giggling, girlish
laughter; he’s whirling me through the air,
in love with his deep, vibrant voice.
On the edge of abundant cornfields, hair
strains into the wind; my mare, Belogubka,
gallops in unison with the count’s white horse.
We enter the twilight of Zaseka Forest
hooves snap birch twigs, and I hear
my mother call, ‘Sonya, come in for shelter,
come in for your bedtime’…
I stake a poker through the burning heart
of charred paper. The edge’s silk petals
puff; gyrate in clouds of particles. Why,
why, did I show my beloved soldier-writer
this novice novel? In hope his love was deepening
like the slow drip of water
collecting in the rain barrel at Polyana?
Love is a garden of palliative and bitter herbs.
Page(s) 38
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