There they stand, seemingly
without
secrets, for years and
poverty
have made them distinct. Yet
the camera lies, like all who
say nothing except merely
the truth. He did as others
do,
became a father, built his
house.
She helped sick folk,
practiced
kindness. But all his
movements
were fingers of ash, fumbling
as the cold floor-draught
willed. Her kindness
resembled all
other: a sternness that never
exhorts, but demands. Early
she knew it was
her only protection. So
it may have been, but perhaps
our life is only a line
in the poem about our life.
Perhaps
we are not the name
we write, but
the nameless hand
that grasps the pen.
