Prisoner of War by Myra Morris

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Now of a night when rain is on the roof          
Beside the fire, we sit,  
My son's young wife and I.
I watch her face, flat-cheeked inscrutable    
As the face of a Chinese mandarin;  
Our talk comes fitfully
Like wind blowing in quick, uneasy rushes
Out of space. And there are silences
Between us, deep, unbridgable
As Winter-flooded streams. I know
Her thoughts and she knows mine.

She bows her head remote and inaccessible,
Locked in her lonely grief.
Locked in her love for him the absent one.
But I sit sullen-mouthed, steeling my heart
Against her pain.
"Mine is the grief." I cry.  
"Your love with him  
Was but the lightning of a Summer afternoon.  
While mine lit his first hour and pointed him the way!"    

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 22 September 1945

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on September 22, 2014 7:15 AM.

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