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I Visited Her - by Olivia Hanson
I Visited Her
Among the yellow mists
and grey, the sky is grey as concrete.
Old lace wilts on her mantelpiece,
she will not wear its widow threads
though through the window, widows walk
and dead husbands talk in the blue air
and in the shells of their ears
although they only hear the sea.
Pale brown tea in a chipped cup –
bone china, dear, so nice and thin,
like your young waist,
like my old wrists.
Conversation wanes again.
The urge to break the peace –
my words break a Dresden shepherdess –
bombed, yes, a whole town...
years have passed
and other cities fall to bits.
Her face is a flower in the chintz of the chair –
faded chintz, apart from where a cushion sits.
Her breath, and yes – the next one comes.
Time to slip into the dusk
and shake out age
and motes of dust.
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