" The Cornflower "
A table
glass stained rings
dark oak
below my hands.
And you
puffing on an old black pipe
talking the inside-out of empty.
A better year
post war
1946.
Farm work resting on your hands
in creases,
blue smoke rising form the corner
of your mouth-
pulling me back with you
to those fields outside Dorset.
Thousands of cornflowers.
Vivid colbalt.
A woman with porcelin skin
pierced with round blue eyes
lays flowers in a willow basket.
You catch your breath
offer the quiet bird in your chest,
a gold band on her finger by Spring
and a child with round blue eyes
one year further.
The sheep graze on the heath
whilst she plaits dough
in the low beamed kitchen
and you in town passing shillings
for a cornflower brooch.
It may have been water
from the kettle on the range,
or flour
from the paper bag on the table,
but she slipped and fell.
Temple meeting old copper pot
filled high with logs.
A baby stirs with a gurgle from the cot
painted lovingly in white gloss.
1949 caught a woman
gently by the shoulder
and told her to stay awhile.
Now
you lean back,
a frown twisting the lines
on your skin
and rest a cornflower brooch
quietly
on dark oak.
© 2003 Lia (E. V. Brooks)
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