There was a clattering of dishes. Our Muslim visitors
walked into the still standing
grey field of sunflowers.
Each visitor with a square spool of waxed string.
Beyond the field
there was the burnt egg of the abandoned monastery,
and then the sea’s cliff. The visitors
were never heard from again.
I wasn’t even nine when what didn’t happen
happened yet again…
"The Kites of Shrove Monday" posted with permission of Norman Dubie. Copyright © 2004 Norman Dubie.
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