1914 Chorus

‘So we watched’
 

The air crackled that morning,
and my brothers, in the rush to see them all,
left plates of toast in the parlour.

I, fearing to be left alone, scrabbled after them
knocking over a jug.
A spatter of milk caught the skirts of my dress--
I sensed it there all day:  cold against my thigh in the morning,
a hardened patch of memory by evening,
something to be ashamed of,
to hide from my mother.

We needn’t have rushed.  They were late,
and the high-street was not full of people. 
The four of us wandered over to the town hall,
and stood around, leaning, waiting,
holding our breath. 

Above us, someone had hung a flag.
In the light winds it would gently bend one way,
blot out the sun,
then curve back,
showing the whiteness of the sky,
then breathe out again,
so that the shadow would cover me once more.

Up the street, a man cheered.

And round the corner by the bank
they came marching.

So we watched: we watched them march by. 

And as we stood there, one of them saw me staring, and winked.
Winked, and was past. 
Even then, I dropped my eyes and looked at my feet,
feeling the blood in my face.

Then nothing but the sound of their boots on the road:
hard, metallic, cutting. 

And suddenly, gone. 

Pointlessly, we walked back to the kitchen
And the cold toast. 

The butter had hardened again
into a greasy yellow stain
I couldn’t eat.