Thursday, May 6, 2010
It was a picture I had after the war.
A bombed English church.
I was too young
to know the word English or war,
but I knew the picture.
The ruined city still seemed noble.
The cathedral with its roof blown off
was not less godly.
The church was the same
plus rain and sky.
Birds flew in and out of the holes
God’s fist made in the walls.
All our desire for love or children
is treated like rags by the enemy.
I knew so much and sang anyway.
Like a bird who will sing until
it is brought down.
When they take away the trees,
the child picks up a stick
and says, this is a tree,
this the house and the family.
As we might. Through a door
of what had been a house,
into the field of rubble,
walks a single lamb, tilting
its head, curious, unafraid,
Posted over on Poetry Foundation