Gertrude In September

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I turn back for a memory, in my need, to hold on to
And like a flash in a barren open field
— Like the smattering of glass –, the
Collected, carefully preserved past
— Preserved somewhere as the
Preserve of innocent boys —
Stares back at me like dead, white noise.

Mother is left. Gertrude is here.
But, since you were gone
— But for my formal education
For which you had paid —
And since that education was by now complete,
I shrug off what’s dust, turn to poetry;
To your grave.

And there
In between channels,
Where one unstrummed end
Blunderingly hangs, balances on its own,
Flickering in the hope to connect to
The next imminent strand
— There, there is a silence which tells me
In imitation of the Father to the Virgin before the Fall —
That that your education cannot give to you all.

She smiles, benevolently, finds humour
In her own quick stride,
Finds humour in banter, jokes of a different kind:
Makes me wonder at her
Transformed state, her frame of mind.
Flowers dangle, where with delicate touch
She’s brought life back on earth.
I sink to resurface at the sign of birth.


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