Mary Woodward
The White Valentine
This year, at last, I could send you a valentine –
a white card in a white envelope, your name
and address stuck on in crooked, cut out letters;
but don’t worry, there’s no ransom note inside.
I have nothing to bargain with, or for, nothing.
Your bewilderment will increase as you pull out
the folded card – empty, unmarked,
off white watercolour paper,
rough edges as if torn by hand, the fold
scored with a bone bookmaker’s tool.
Almost a work of art in its blankness and lack.
You’ll turn it over, hold it up to the light.
Nothing. You’ll look at the envelope again.
Postmarked Central London, though I have considered
going to Paris to post it. Almost any city
would have done: Oslo, Anchorage, Helsinki – somewhere
still deep in snow would have been suitable.
A cold gift, a white valentine from a winter place
heart-high in ice, where they speak another language
and the flights out are grounded.
You might throw it away. Or slip it
in one of your books, think about it now and then.
You will never know who sent it. No point
even trying to guess.
I vanished from your life so long ago
even the idea of youth is beyond thaw;
your name in my old diary hangs
dangerously in a fragile icicle of memory,
this uncreated card
as perfect as everything that didn’t happen.
a white card in a white envelope, your name
and address stuck on in crooked, cut out letters;
but don’t worry, there’s no ransom note inside.
I have nothing to bargain with, or for, nothing.
Your bewilderment will increase as you pull out
the folded card – empty, unmarked,
off white watercolour paper,
rough edges as if torn by hand, the fold
scored with a bone bookmaker’s tool.
Almost a work of art in its blankness and lack.
You’ll turn it over, hold it up to the light.
Nothing. You’ll look at the envelope again.
Postmarked Central London, though I have considered
going to Paris to post it. Almost any city
would have done: Oslo, Anchorage, Helsinki – somewhere
still deep in snow would have been suitable.
A cold gift, a white valentine from a winter place
heart-high in ice, where they speak another language
and the flights out are grounded.
You might throw it away. Or slip it
in one of your books, think about it now and then.
You will never know who sent it. No point
even trying to guess.
I vanished from your life so long ago
even the idea of youth is beyond thaw;
your name in my old diary hangs
dangerously in a fragile icicle of memory,
this uncreated card
as perfect as everything that didn’t happen.
Page(s) 5
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