HER NEEDLES ARE QUIET NOW

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Her needles are quiet now, a silence has come over her  -

what dream or nightmare dances in the hearth’s flames: his childhood,

his youth, or finally, him lying open-mouthed , eyes staring, riveted to the ground?

The clock ticks (drip of his blood).

He is always there in every reverie: a boy running, already

crippled from the blast, running, running, until a red star smashes through his forehead

(she’s stretched forward at this, gasping: ‘barley’ ‘barley’ but no, not in this game.)

The clock strikes;

suddenly she’s out of it, asking:

‘where’s time gone?’

‘A dinner to make!'

…soldiers’ shadows

across his

staring eyes

                                                                                        Note:  barley: a truce term