Love Letters

Love Letters

Before she got too old then, to forget, my

mother burnt all my father's letters

from the war. A blustery winter

afternoon: a pile of shoeboxes and tie

of lavender ribbon. I don't know why;

their love was still as potent and tender

as it had been then; when other

things went on beyond the page and sigh

of pen and ink. Four years’ worth, one for each day.

Coming from the back of the yard, smelling

of rain and smoke, her eyes damp from the sweat

or otherwise. Yet still, I asked her why?

to my small years, her private smile not telling:

and sad, before she got too old then to forget.