She wills him to outlive the harsh geology
of war, surpass
the whispering condemned, his
fatigues soaked with their breath, his sights with their gore,
to soar beyond the faults and crags
of mountains with their terrible rocks; to leap
above that unreasonable, bluest sky, to arrive
at a place of quiet honour and tranquillity.
Daily, and alive like him, she carries
stones upon her palms. Finding
that her son is held
in these pre-Cambrian dreams. Here are the poised, sharp
contourings of combat:
the imprecision of a clock, the uncoloured
peaks of warm bright
pebbledash; this absence.
