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.