Member Poem

Weathered face, viridescent poison in a jar
to kill the moles; frail frame buffeted by gales,
she waits for cherished cows all rattletrap and bone.

The mansion stares aghast without a roof,
its granite rocks subsiding into Lethe.

Here there is no ownership of land;
heedless of the title deed she still claims mine.

To her I should be inside making soup
or outside making light of all those peasant chores
that make of calloused fingers useful scions.

Hazel catkins soften leaden skies;
adders dip their diamond heads in boots.

She offers sticks of pomme d’amour,
milk fresh and viscous from the udder,

eau de vie de pêche and eggs like polished gems,
a china dolphin for my boy of ten.
I coach him in diplomacy, offer English tea.