Green Brocade
Green brocade of the pre-war table-cloth,
two of my fingers trying to march a line,
stepping in shorn-pile patterns like a path
of puddles strung across the summer lane,
the voice of a slow song, not understood
before forgotten, like water surfacing
under the sill of consciousness, calm mood
of alto sorrow – low, sleepless, cradle-song.
To your little soldier, hands up, holding the skein,
you crooned more tears than ever could be yours.
Under my day your wordless voice keens on;
more constant than love, it seeps into the years.
Page(s) 25
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