Why is it kept?
The greatcoat drags at a rusted
nail
in the stable, dark,
masking spade and rat-trap,
brushing a resting scythe;
its silver buttons glint a little,
quiet statements, A.R.P., a crown;
sunlight, filtering the dust of
days,
warms it, rough under my hands -
it smells of apple wood, oiled
string,
of good earth and wide skies;
its dull scabious-blue is powdered
over
with dead dreams
of Norfolk lanes, black nights,
of first-aid posts and droning
dark,
of writhing bodies at The Ferry
Inn
and burning, bitter reeds.
Why is it kept?
Drilled by unseen moths and
splashed by swallows,
the house key sleeps in its
pocket, heavy with ease.
Cobwebs crust its folds,
thick with dust and seeds - some
will be poppies.
No-one throws it out:
the blue shadow stains the memory
like war.
(March,
1990)
