They Shall Not Grow Old
Logic, grammar, each grey vocable Broke into pieces when the telegram Fell from her faint fingers, dainty bomb Exploding on the carpet like a bubble.
No punctuation, though beyond the glass Of veiled french-windows could be seen a few Dark circumflexes printed on the sky And yellow commas scattered on the grass.
Mummy was distraught and Daddy proud, Each isolated in parentheses. Silent exclamations marked her cheeks, But he stood staring at a distant cloud.
Private, pleasurable to contemplate. He almost smiled. Never had she felt Such hatred for the man, or so much guilt Remembering her son and her delight And pride reflecting his exuberant joy In those twin asterisks that gleamed upon Each epaulette: her own sweet subaltern, Unchangeably her gentle, aureate boy.
At least she cannot see him now he lies, A black full-stop punched neat between white eyes.
Vernon Scannell
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