Thursday, April 30, 2015

THE LAST LETTER    [Stefanie Bennett]
All evening spent under
The blue glaze of her eyes,
And the imported night-shade
Of a once fine satin.
The hop-scotch designed socks,
Knitted in her Nation’s colours -
Only three pair, that time,
Because of the talking.
“It’s getting close to winter.”
Is what she said. “Always,
Someone’s at some front.”
Then, tiredly -
“Always children. Cold. Threadbare.”
The needles were ridged. Twisted.
But sufficed. Loyally, they’d
Worked fifty taut years. “Hands...
My needles are hands”-
“The extensions of the heart.”
She died –, on an overcast day.
In Balmain it was.
How many knew she lived?
Only the landlady and those
Who dig graves for paupers
... And I, and a Polish postman,
Whose load
Been lightened.
[Balmain; Sydney, Australia].

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...