That Easter holiday when I was nine,
I filled the days of lakeland drizzle
with the contents of the hotel’s bookcase.
I remember one page from a Great War
history. Only the uniform
denoted humanity. What could have
been a face was a smear in sepia
mud. Wars and the aftermath of wars
shaped childhood. In brief sun, we visited
Wordsworth’s schoolroom with its harsh, scrawled desks.
I was fussed to a snapshot. And there I am
scowling at the brightness…
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By David Selzer