(title from John Betjeman)
Her only refuge is her china cup, a walled garden in her ear
as she stirs the universe soundlessly, with a single spoon.
If every soldier’s braid, every tool and hat and guild seems
to send her into dizzying possibilities that the planet burst open
Why didn’t anyone say that it was no less painful to
be a child guileless? How could she ever find her home?
She searches in vain for her well-lit place with no key,
wondering which corner in the universe could hold her,
could keep her in hiding, to rebuild, though the world
was as terrible, as violently, blazingly bright, but so cold.
Whose hand to be her helping hand? To guide her
through the night? She only has so little to go on.
-- photo by Dominic Blewett