Garden of Bedsteads

They came from the German orphanage,
just frames, no padding, craving
the crease of hands around bars.

In the garden, they wept. Rust marks
on the grass stayed after they left,
after the lawn had been mown and mown.

‘Remember the eggs,’ they pined.
‘The dyed-red eggs at Easter time.
Under our pillows, painted with crosses’

the lightest of secrets.
Remember the walls that peeled to pink,
the ceiling that caved, plastering hair.

Remember the men who came with a van
and lifted us up from the gravel drive.
Already emptied. Corroding in air?

Jane McKie in the Poetry Store

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