1942

I lie and tremble in my bed
Listening to the rumbling calls of war
And death that creep closer with each hour,
And mother tends the kitchen hearth
Before she turns to knead the creamy dough
With knuckles now a darkening red,
Half listening to the whimpering sounds
From us that lie just beyond light’s edge,
Her face shaded by the falling hair
That has turned from gold to grey
Between the celebrations of birthdays,
And I hear her sing a hymn as if this house
Has become a chapel wherein we pray.