Today you said that you wished you were dead
and told me you just could not bare to face
today at school or any other place,
insisted you would stay moping in bed.
Then I found the crumpled letter you’d read;
I could see how this cloud of an ink stain
hid everything but the arrows that rained
down from the sky on your kind-hearted head.
At last I understood your hopelessness
in the harsh, curtained-off, late autumn gloom
but knew that you’d come to your senses soon
reminding yourself of your new pink dress:
then gusts of sea air would clear out your head,
you’d know from your tears you could not be dead.
Peter Keeble
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