The Truce.
Thin and respectable respectable
She stirs the pudding
One hand on
The wooden spoon
She holds a latin grammar in the other.
The room sits quietly and still..
It’s full of tasteful grace with curtains
To the floor.
In summer time , the painted doors
Will open to the lawn
Where she’ll read Luther in the afternoon…
Glancing at the garden and the sky.
She sips at her ambrosia
With pride.
Upright she sits..her cotton hat of flowers
Attracting butterflies.
Her husband stands behind
the clean glass pane
His face a pale half moon
That’s on the wane
He’s never caste a pearl before the swine
The Parson taught him no
So long ago…
The garden and the sky are not for him
He cannot take the flies.
He bids her come back in
for rain is due.
The night is chill..the fire burns
The roasting fowl is plump
He carves the bird…with perfect knives
Flesh falling from the bone
The shining silver glistens on the dresser
by the wall..…
They rarely speak.
They understand each other now
The silence is a truce that suits them both
Less bother than another row..
He reaches out to pour himself a glass
He loves his wine …and so does she
They’re feeling better now.
Kristine Byrne 2014/15