Courage

In a time when hearts were nobler,
my mother, bride-to-be,
tight-permed, peach-skinned, fresh,
kneeling by the fire,
warm in its flickering glow,
took letters tied with ribbon.

She had been loved before
and here was all the proof.
Handwriting which once made the heart
leap in the body
whispered promises and longing.
Boys who went to war
and came back silent-lipped
knew how to love
as if each day might be the last.

She read the letters,
touched the inky scrawl,
remembered faces, sunny afternoons,
pictured futures which might have been,
before she fed each one to the flames.

And now that fifty years of love
have ended with another fire
and dearer ashes,
she cloaks her heart once more against the past.

Soft silver curls, and skin of velvet corrugations,
she lifts her face again towards the future.