A Poem by Helen Slater

Easter Sunday 24 April 2011

Not far from the unexpected embrace of great-hearted
hospitality in Kensington and arms flung in the direction of
Eliot's church, too far to walk after champagne. In strange
safety to admire Laguiole knives arrayed in pastel celebration
in a room too small for it, on a table too small for eight guests
talking about Daniel Barenboim, and lost icons,
and Russian dancing, and yet it was all there.
The lilacs were in bloom and the
windows black with sunlight.

Now I am weeping foreign tears over gutter-sluiced inflorescence
each step knocked out more memory, some return to an internal
melt that clogs the future as though it will never meet us, heel in the sand.

Just to read: you'd be happy too with such a gorgeous creature in your arms!

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