Call the shadows from the morning light, breathe
And slam the window shut.
Nothing there.
Nothing the tobacconist wants to see, nothing she sees.
Light another stick of incense,
Put it on the grave.
That spring should be so lovely. Always galling,
Always settles like the dust blown in from China
Along this dirty street.
Shadows, gather in the morning light, descend
From the dusty reaches, from the metal braces
Rusting overhead.
Forty years ago they sat and drank and thought it up:
Put a cover on it, this old street, and make it an arcade –
to keep the dust down, sweep away the war.
Her sweetheart was among them –
and her husband, too.
Husband died when it was done. The other lived too long.
Suck on a cigarette, and draw the window open.
Shoot a line of smoke to the arcade,
and slam the window shut.
Glare at them, the fickle shadows, in the morning light
Dancing with the dust
And drifting smoke.
There’s always smoke, and noise, and they were wrong:
She wasn’t safe at all,
sent out to the country in the war.
She left the battle unresolved –
sweethearts off to war, and she was gone.
There was never enough food,
and they bombed them just the same.
Pulls on her cigarette, draws the window back, exhales a blast
At all shadows and graves,
and slams the window shut again.
Forty years, it should be long enough to wait.
Sixty years, it should be long enough to win contention
between the shadows and the grave.
Copyright © 2010
C.F. Ryal
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