Under her grandmother’s patchwork quilt
a calico bird’s-eye view
of crops and boundaries
naming dimly the districts of her body
sleeps my Annie like a perfect lady
Like ages of weightless snow
on tiny oceans filled with light
her eyelids enclose deeply
a shade tree of birthday candles
one for every morning
until the now of sleeping
The small banner of blood
kept and flown by Brother Wind
long after the pierced bird fell down
is like her red mouth
among the squalls of pillow
Bearers of evil fancy
of dark intention and corrupting fashion
who come to rend the quilt
plough the eye and ground the mouth
will contend with mighty Mother Goose
and Farmer Brown and all good stories
of invincible belief
which surround her sleep
like the golden wheather of a halo
Well-wishers and her true lover
may stay to watch my Annie
sleeping like a perfect lady
under her grandmother’s patchwork quilt
but they must promise to whisper
and to vanish by morning –
all but her one true lover.
(Bron: The Spice-Box of Earth/Jonathan Cape)
Bitterkoekjes 