Snowdrop

I make my porridge and don’t think about the bombs,
Clasp the dog into her purple harness,
Take her prancing down the lane and
Do not think of limbs exploding into atoms
Or of bodies crusted shut. I put my hand
On the thick trunk of a pine tree
I’ve been visiting since it lost its fieldmate
Last winter in a storm. You are wise, I think,
And tall enough to see the future. A baby dies
As I look among the shoots to see
If the first snowdrop’s here yet.
Here it is, I say to my dog, look:
You can see its tiny rainwashed face.