Sue Jamieson
the damp soft ladders of morning
potatoes ash-coated from the fire
men who sleep under their women’s skirts
birch-rafts poled through the silver marshes
stepping storks pile twigs on top of towers
the nest wide as a wheel, in wind and snow
Come here, little one, out of the dark cupboard
Baba cried quietly on All Saints’ Day
for her village boys, gone for long time
forever in fact, just the memory
of the rumble as thousands of tanks mowed
harvests to mud, with arms, legs, shoes
my chestnuts, my orach, my tin drum
all stashed so the soldiers would not steal
what kept us living, whistling, playing
and not a soul with me in the cellar
on my Name Day, only dark and hunger
like an angel, silent, glistening
When shall I come out, Baba? Tell me…
