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11/27/2009 1:44:17 PM
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Mr Pierce the butcher Got news his son was missing About a month before The closing of the war. A bald man, tall and careful, He stood in his shop and found No bottom to his sadness, Nowhere for it to stop. When my aunt came through the door Delivering the milk, He spoke, with his quiet air Of a considerate teacher, But words weren't up to it, He turned back to the meat. The message was in error. Later that humid summer At a local high school fete, I saw, returned, the son Still in his uniform. Mr Pierce was not there But was as if implied In the son who looked like him Except he had red hair. For I recall him well Encircled by his friends, Beaming a life charged now Doubly because restored, And recall also how Within his hearty smile His lips contained his father's Like a light within the light That he turned everywhere. Thom Gunn
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