Remembering
by Anne Slade ~ Ontario, Canada
The wool gliding through the needles
was ruby-red like the cranberry jelly
she boiled and ladled into clear glass jars
gifts that carry images of her
climbing through the coulees
her daughters beside her
reaching for branches that bear
the heaviest fruit
The needles blended splashes of color
with white
as white as the tufts of wool
gathered from fleeces
shorn from her sheep
turquoise yarn meandered
as she reached for green
threading through the promise of spring
for each of us
as we shared
in her tapestry of life
�Anne Slade
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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1918
by Anne Slade ~ Ontario, Canada
He wasn�t my youngest Edward wasn�t
I worried more about him than the others
because he was so much like me
too serious and deliberate
I see him his dark eyes sombre
each time I pass the hallway mirror
He was never impetuous like Ian
Ian who tried to enlist before his 16th birthday
no Edward thought things through
he left our homestead in Canada
to fight for England
Trained in Ireland
he was on a transport torpedoed in the Aegean
he saw on hundred and seven of his comrades drown
before he parched in the sands of Egypt
before he struggled in the mud of France
I remember when he was ten we went to Dover
and from the castle parapet
he hollered �land ho!�
his eyes shaded with cupped hands
as we looked across the channel
to the hazy shores of France
I knew when he was dead
I knew with innate certainty
the moment I saw the blood from the rabbit
Ian was skinning stain his shirt
spread like an opening flower
If I had known before that moment
I would somehow have gone back to Dover
I would have pushed past the home guard
stood on the castle parapet
and looked over to France to Marquion
where the bullet tore his heart
Edward would have sensed me there
when he turned towards home for a last look
in that second
before the final beat
�Anne Slade
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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