The Fired Pot

In our town, people live in rows.

The only irregular thing in a street is a steeple;

And where that points to, God only knows,

And not the poor disciplined people!

 

And I have watched the women growing old,

Passionate about pins, and pence, and soap,

Till the heart within my wedded breast grew cold,,

And I lost hope.

 

But a young soldier came to our town,

He spoke his mind most candidly.

He asked me quickly to lie down,

And that was very good for me.

 

For though I gave him no embrace –

Remembering my duty –

He altered the expression of my face,

And gave me back my beauty.

 

Anna Wickham (1884-1947)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s