History Poems

This land

has laws:

break them

and you

will pay.

 

 

Asking the purpose

of history is like

asking the purpose

of a bayonet.

 

 

My grandmother’s

five-year-old hands

blue  from picking

wild blueberries

on this hillside

(1894)

 

 

For me the smell

of camomille

tea meant healthy;

for her it meant

a memory of

the war, cold trains

and labour camps,

she muttered as

she left the room.

 

 

Blomidon’s

borrowed light

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