Poetry
Seeing It Through
by Kerry Craig
You survived a second world war
only to be born
at least 9 months after the day it ended
or to grow old in a divided house
whose joinery
(you had been told) was beyond
reproach,
where every word must be placed
with the same
deliberation as a footfall on a minefield
across the blank pages of a book,
line upon line
of all you are able to ask of an alphabet
until the past lies buried in the past
and the time is how it feels to be alive
