The shifting light of autumn Has caused an uneasiness. This morning, I lay beside My son, listening to his breathing, Finding comfort in the soft bulbs Of his hands, opening Like poppies at first contact with sunlight.
What those other boys In that place where we've unleashed War, are thinking, I cannot say. Theirs is a life punctuated by The ratta-tatt-tatt of bullets, The mud-green of uniforms, And corpses of bombed out cars. Waking at dim first light, Cannot be like this. Soft and sweet,
The certainty of their mother's Breath against neck and hair. In this dream-state here, I can only think of dressing, Feeding him, caressing his smallness.
I don't like this early darkness, The falling leaves, the raking, That once provided me a kind of order Reminds me of death Somewhere else.
How will I explain this to him? In these hummed hours Before he speaks my name, I pretend to have a truth That turns the darkness into light.