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Henrietta Clarke, memory, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

From the Sea

From one small window I looked out and saw A square of well-kept lawn, close-cut and neat, Where sunlit branches swaying in the breeze Made patterned shades across the narrow street. Along this narrow street where shade trees grow I saw four tired grey survivors go. Their very walk showed they were men of ships, And on each face there was a look of awe, As if what they had suffered had not passed And time alone would dim the things they saw. The square is empty now, branches still sway, Was it a dream I dreamed but yesterday?
SadHenrietta Clarke

Wild Roses

Beside the country lane wild roses grow; Each year it looks the same, how well I know, For I walk down this road when work is done, And often in the golden setting sun I see you stand beside the hedge again, And all the joy returns, and all the pain. The salt sea breeze mingles with hay and clover, Gulls whirl and cry; the summer’s almost over. Wild rose, with thorns your beauty can’t conceal, Waken afresh the anguish that I feel. The tide goes out, the barren rocks look grey, Sea-gulls fly by and only memories stay.
SadHenrietta Clarke

Time

I have come back, why did I dream That life could be the same? I walk the old familiar streets And someone calls my name. Around me others move about Like actors on the screen, While I, the audience, look on A too familiar scene. This is no way to blot out things A man should never see, With row on row of empty days In slow monotony. I have come back, you are too kind, Yes, much too kind to me, But only time can bring again The peace that used to be.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Her First Visit

I should remember better . . . Streets and high buildings Filled with a million sounds And the stress of life. But most clearly I recall My grandmother, Knitting rapidly bright-colored yarn Or hulling large strawberries With my aid. And I can remember walking, Clinging tightly to giant fingers; Our steps made a sharp noise On the pavement, as we hurried along For ice cream.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

The Past

The sun threw burning streaks of light On the stately copper samovar. Days of Russian glory Dreamed in a second-hand store.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Rapier Blades

Years ago and oftentimes forgotten Was the message sent into the night. The paper crackled as it was thrust furtively Into its heavy parchment envelope. Cold sweat was on your brow Though the room was hot; The odor of the wax came to your nostrils As you sealed it, Having signed away your honor. All this returns with harsh, vivid detail As someone closes a missive with a purple seal. Memories roused by odors are keen As rapier blades.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

The Timepiece

There was a time when watches were a joy To little boys who climbed their uncle’s knee, And listened to a solemn tock-tick-tock, And held in childish hands a mystery. You pulled a watch from out its pocket nest, Which always seemed too small to hold its prize, A magic spring was touched, the case popped wide, And you beheld the dial with wondering eyes. The watch was fastened to a heavy chain, With golden links, it hung across his vest, And once you found the way the crossbar worked, Your uncle then had neither peace nor rest. And there were charms, a horseshoe, a stag's tooth, High on a blue serge knee, you saw them all, Or on a rough tweed knee that scratched your skin
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Screen Doors

We sat and talked; the shadows grew more tall And golden sunlight blended over all. We spoke of crops that failed, of horses, men. He said, “I started work when I was ten. I peddled cottage cheese from door to door. The youngest of us six, and we were poor.” His blue eyes looked beyond the fall-ploughed loam, Where on the sunlit hill he saw his home; He filled his pipe, lighted a match and stood, The whole six feet of him were staunch and good. “It matters not,” he said, “how much I’ve seen; I learned of human nature through the screen.”
SadHenrietta Clarke

Fragments

In her youth she must have been beautiful, This woman who works by the day; For even now after many years Her figure is graceful as she goes about her tasks; And her eyes, though dimmed, hold memories and dreams. Dreams . . . the dreams have been shattered, Redreamed and shattered again, But she still tries to piece the fragments together, Though life tells her this is useless.
DreamyHenrietta Clarke

Mirage

Away in the Southland, Spring came early, And flowers blossomed overnight; This should have made my heart beat faster, As I gazed in awe at the magic sight. Then I thought of my home in the distant Northland, And somehow life didn’t seem just right. I curled my fingers to form a spyglass, And shield my eyes from the noontime glare, And through this opening I saw in wonder A fragment of drift-ice, floating there . . . A clamper of drift-ice, moving slowly . . . Strange how the memory of childhood clings, Sapphire colors of Spring in the Northland, Rainbow lights on a sea-gull’s wings.

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