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Description
The postman delivered her letter today.
I sat and stared as though I had never seen
a franked envelope before.

              I looked hard at the post-mark,
which suddenly gave substance
to a name that I had heard and spoke a
hundred times, had passed through on the bus,
yet never once had I connected it with her.

My great grand children, had they aided
or betrayed me? The story was known
in the family, in a secretive, whispered way.
No one ever mentioned it to me, they knew
how painful it would be.

                                     But no one shall catch
me weeping over a letter I’m not brave enough
to read, in an envelope I’m not strong enough
to open. How old must she be? Fifty if she’s a day.
The great grand children used their computers,
following leads, they said, non-committally.

My mother still used words like “work-house”
though such things had long since gone by.
My sister and I were both fathered namelessly,
our mother struggled to get by. She robed herself
in a widow’s borrowed dignity. Easy for her.
The wars had made more widows
   than anyone could count.

That seemed to make her less merciful
when it came to me. I ranted and cursed and
damned her hypocrisy. But she was too strong.
My baby was born and gone. As I signed her life
away it felt like a crime that should never
be forgiven me. I ranted and hated.
When my mother died my hatred boiled on,
but I was the only one left to be scalded

She had a big enough brood, they said,
and all my other children left me little time
for private sorrow, yet I always felt the sharp
bite at my child’s loss, and rage at a dead
woman’s cruelty.
                           Then the great grand
children started to pry. They saw no sense
in my ancient pain, they wanted to set me free.
Who knows what we’ll find, they said,
we’ll have to wait and see.

Aiding or betraying? Both at once maybe.
My God, they found her, in her early fifties,
mother of three. And I wrote a halting letter
to her, there was nothing else for me to do.
Now her letter is before me. The grate is cold,
But I wish it danced with smoke and flame,
so I watch that envelope curl and die.
I cannot open it now. I’m too old,
I’m much, much too old.

Description
The postman delivered her letter today.
I sat and stared as though I had never seen
a franked envelope before.

              I looked hard at the post-mark,
which suddenly gave substance
to a name that I had heard and spoke a
hundred times, had passed through on the bus,
yet never once had I connected it with her.

My great grand children, had they aided
or betrayed me? The story was known
in the family, in a secretive, whispered way.
No one ever mentioned it to me, they knew
how painful it would be.

                                     But no one shall catch
me weeping over a letter I’m not brave enough
to read, in an envelope I’m not strong enough
to open. How old must she be? Fifty if she’s a day.
The great grand children used their computers,
following leads, they said, non-committally.

My mother still used words like “work-house”
though such things had long since gone by.
My sister and I were both fathered namelessly,
our mother struggled to get by. She robed herself
in a widow’s borrowed dignity. Easy for her.
The wars had made more widows
   than anyone could count.

That seemed to make her less merciful
when it came to me. I ranted and cursed and
damned her hypocrisy. But she was too strong.
My baby was born and gone. As I signed her life
away it felt like a crime that should never
be forgiven me. I ranted and hated.
When my mother died my hatred boiled on,
but I was the only one left to be scalded

She had a big enough brood, they said,
and all my other children left me little time
for private sorrow, yet I always felt the sharp
bite at my child’s loss, and rage at a dead
woman’s cruelty.
                           Then the great grand
children started to pry. They saw no sense
in my ancient pain, they wanted to set me free.
Who knows what we’ll find, they said,
we’ll have to wait and see.

Aiding or betraying? Both at once maybe.
My God, they found her, in her early fifties,
mother of three. And I wrote a halting letter
to her, there was nothing else for me to do.
Now her letter is before me. The grate is cold,
But I wish it danced with smoke and flame,
so I watch that envelope curl and die.
I cannot open it now. I’m too old,
I’m much, much too old.