07 October 2009

In Eighteen

when he came home from the trenches,
back in eighteen, after she had
rolled miles of bandages, the

carnations were mixed, unluckily,
red and white, in a large glass upon the windowsill

petals blotted the pages they
were pressed between, the
black and white type repeated endlessly

quinine tablets and rum and
white sheets for the windows

the eyes above the white-masks,
beds neatly rowed, taking
a fresh air cure

while others kneeled upon the stony steps of
Holy Cross, desperate words
winging heavenwards

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