Ray Grinney
Boxes
Inside the shrinking circle
someone has moved the boxes,
snuck in while she slept,
swapped them around,
slung out all the empties.
In the box in the foreground,
a small cottage with a grey slate roof.
In another her mother
forever thirty, never a smile.
And her father,
a black-framed photograph.
And her siblings, whoever they were.
If ever they were.
And somewhere in a war,
an airman on the dance-floor
holds her close.
And the music.
Oh, the music.
There were babies
and grandchildren
and great-grandchildren;
so many strangers outside the circle.
And each morning
more empty boxes.
Page(s) 22
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