War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

little corner of England (24)

the mason’s hands slough, slake Portland stone
hides his mark beneath the balustrade, carved white again
work of masons who left in 1915 at the sign of the bluebell;
a century later oh deep in my heart, deep, I wish them well,
as do I the sons who run the length of a railway platform
full desert kit, ceramic plates on, duffle shouldered
run, while they still have legs to stand upon,
o little corner of England, where the grass is moss,
a mother’s loss is aching rock hard hell
while, on Dartmoor fat, patchy, ponies foal,
roll in the last of summer, autumn’s heather in bismuth bloom,
and the Tors those boys explored remain, as do pints of cloudy ale,
coal fire smoky as the mason’s Portland stone caked hands
as he sloughs and slakes the Edwardian staircase, bridal white again.

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled little corner of England (24). It was posted here on September 12, 2012.


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