He had said: ‘Don’t give it a thought,’

So I did not;

But later, in the shade of a waking moment

Of a quiet spot, I did.

 

It was not the thought, but the memory;

I had opened that door

And seen them. It couldn’t be erased

Or picked up off the floor, not now.

 

She had come after me, rearranged her hair.

Then his turn to explain,

Or try to, but I was in no mood

To feel their pain, nor mine.

 

Last week they said goodbyes, departed

On the log sledge.

The blizzard came, not with anger but with tears,

The ice too cold to dredge, this time.