CEMETERY FOR THE WAR DEAD, N. HOLLAND

Sitting upright like presidents or popes,
we rode on the substantial Dutch bikes,
tyre rubber squidging on the warm tarmac:
we were free to ride all round the cemetery,
saw how scrubbed and upright all the gravestones,
neat the grass and clean the paths, how orderly the place,
yet restful - trees and shrubs allowed to spread
and make a sanctuary for birds.

It felt comfortable, like the broad sprung saddles
that we rode on: this nation liked complacent ease
and order, so we thought -
But then we found, behind the lodge,
a cage of peacocks, white ones, maggot-pale
as if their blood had been completely drained away
and left them stepping, slow, on parchment legs.

Such a shock -
like finding all the war-dead herded in this cage,
their ghosts held prisoner.

CLOSING THE KITCHEN

I am closing the kitchen now:
I never was a great success in it.

I shall not sharpen knives again -
Could never stand the red of blood.

Nor shall I sharpen memories -
Cannot bear the choke of pain.

I shan't freeze vegetables again -
Never liked the chill of ice.

I have shut the windows tight -
No point in letting nasty things fly in.

I dine out now, or live on snacks
and milk, and takeaways.

But sometimes, sitting at a space for one,
I wonder should I dare
to stand once more in the freezer's glare,
test a sharp knife on a fingertip,
let in fresh air,
remind myself
I'm still alive?

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