The night the angels came,

a mottled moon

mapped out your way,

a keen frost

nipped their wings,

and Butkus, faithful to the end,

barked in his best baritone.

Against a backdrop,

of tired grey vigilance,

lips pale and puckered,

ribs rising through tightened skin,

I felt your fragile frame

shiver through shadows

of a pristine sky.

Worn from the fray

scarred from

the surgeon’s scalpel,

you lay,

weak as watered milk,

your breathing

keeping beat

to the din of death’s destiny.

I cursed the One who sent them,

held you to my breast,

howled when your head drooped,

washed your face with my tears

and swore at neighbours who fought

to set you free.

The jagged edge of memory slices deep.

It’s seventy years ago

since I wept at my daughter’s grave.

Now I realise

The love I’ve known

is the love of two people staring

not at each other,

but in the same direction.