Frances Dickenson Pinder

From “Marsh Sketches”

LIKE a woman who remembers

Is the marsh—

A woman who forgives, and yet

Whose every mood is dimmed

Because, forgiving,

She cannot ever quite forget.

None knows her secret heart—

One can but guess

What crying winds have stirred

To dumb distress

Her quietness;

What sodden rains have trampled her;

What lust of August suns.

She has no words:

Impassive, inarticulate

Save for the flight of birds—

Slow heron, slumbrous crane—

She keeps her counsel.

Though cities bloom and fade

And forests fall,

She does not change;

The slow years pause … pass,

And leave no trace—

Like snowflakes on a peasant’s face.

So long

The seasons have defrauded her,

There is no festival

Upon her calendar;

In spring, no hint of welcoming

For the few flowers

That seek her smile;

No song upon her lips …

How should she sing?

For nothing whole is hers,

No perfect gift—

Only the spent and broken things

That drift

In from the unrepentant sea.