Maille, France, and hanging baskets.

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I cried today, struggled to strangle
A dam, battled to stem
The tide. I hold it here, just below the breastbone,
it beats like a second heart, remorselessly
threatening; a grey cloud pregnant with rain.

My tears feel too easy, it was their pain
I found hard to bear, listening to the radio
And chopping onions.
A French village, prettied with pansies, and everywhere
the lost , the squandered. Maille , April 1944.

Giselle and Gilbert water their tributes, hanging
baskets the receptacles of their love ,
a lifetime lived without. Without a father, butchered
alongside cousins, the babies, the laughter, the cows.
They remember, and thoughtfully refuse to forget.
Pansies, ‘pensées’ adding colour to the day.