Dear All
an oldish poem revised a few times. Folk tell me it's too short for all that
information and they want to hear from uncle-but I'm stuck and I like the
almost sonnet look. What do you think?
BW
Christine
Secret
Her twins lived a few hours; her daughter,
named Verity for a dead sister,
married a young airman in New York State
who deserted for a bimbo on the Internet.
My aunt strained her eyes penning airmail,
washable blue Quink in sloping letters,
knitting tea-cosies and babies' leggings,
baking fatless sponges for chapel bazaars.
We slept on clouds of goose feathers
in their attic in County Durham,
white lace pillowslips scented like gardens;
I never cared for her much after Gretchen,
Uncle said at her funeral. Should've stayed
in Germany in forty five. We never got on.
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