You took six sugars, each spoon a deep heap.
You brewed up your pint, that cold April dawn;
lowered in your armchair, summoned by sleep –
sweet liquid untouched, and curtains still drawn.
The big sleep. Unbidden. And then the cheap
sharp slap of body bag zip. Left: one torn,
tea-stained snapshot (you, buried to the knee
in wartime snow),
and a stone-cold mug of tea.
Amanda Ellison
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