She could have come to sift my memories,

To hold them once refined in a safer place

Her head held high above the dawn of my world

Sheathed in ear muffs and a tightly drawn purple scarf

Hands that stayed calm and eyes that stuttered

A long jacket over a short skirt.

But it was not these things that first caught me,

Nor her abrasive approach to the English language

Using it sparingly and only when absolutely necessary.

It was the warmth of her hands,

The explosion of her smile between shared moments

And her memories

That seemed so much clearer than mine.

Michael Thorne was struck square in the face by the scraping of the sky on a winter Sunday at Vimy Ridge.

He has been published in a number of magazines including Blueprint, Gold Dust, The Delinquent and South Bank Poetry and online by The Recusant, The Poetry Warrior and 10K Poets. He continues to write with due diligence and fanaticism.

Website: www.myspace.com/rhuardean ; recordings: www.myspace.com/rhuardeanlive.