Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

(Remember, I pray thee, who ever perished, being
innocent? or where were the innocent cut off?)

Here there is sunlight, slow and squeezed
between the leaves of an apple tree
leaning out above me.
I am sprinkled by the voices of
small children, by a blackbird's song,
by stray and cooling droplets
from a garden spray.
Upon a slight breeze rosemary and bay
and new-mown grass are blended, and
the cloying scent of jasmine.
I am sitting at a corner of the rockery,
the light dark light of lawn
before me, at my back a mass of
tiny, vivid flowers.
And I'm a chill, dark centre to this day -
self-pity, and a knowledge that the blame
is mine alone.
And a darker centre of my own,
expanding.

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