John Metcalfe
Saint Joan
I heard a sound in the wind, mother,
Getting at me again,
And heard something go by
Like a sort of rude whispering sigh
In the silly rain.
All very well to say ‘Katie, listen,
It’s just your head-noises’.
I promised I’d try
Not to hear. But near that old Nissen
Hut where I heard them first
As I played with the boys
I saw a man
Just like the sound he had made,
All baker-white and sly.
Granted, I ran.
Yet I belong to Them now,
And you can fry
Before I give up my voices
For you or father.
I’d rather
Die...
With acknowledgements to The Saturday Review of Literature(N.Y.).—Ed.
Page(s) 128
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