We have packed hurriedly
The sad news came last night
At the end of a gloriously
Bright late summer's day
'David has gone,' Lorraine says
Our voices break and mingle
With such inadequate tears
For years we have dreaded
This moment now standing
Before us raw and bare
Lock the door ... Pack the car
I look down and notice
I am wearing my red sandals
Remember our first sorrow
I am 11 ... David only 7
Preparing for our infant sister's funeral
I wear red ankle socks - my last clean pair
'Dad, tell her she can't wear red...'
Our brother's voice cuts the air
Decades older ... No wiser
I close my eyes
Slide down the silent years
On my knees
Mop up the blood with prayer
Listen for your voice
3-9-09
About Me
- Betty Anne Colp
- Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada
- I encountered my first writer’s block in 1953. My Grade 4 homework from the little Colpton schoolhouse: Write a poem. I climbed over that block... with the help of Elsie, my mother ... and have been writing ever since. Like my father's tales, most of what I write is true. And the poem? Well, it was called: The Puppet. The memory of a nine-year-old is a wonderful thing . . .
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