Washed and starched, spread out and shaken
Folded so many times creases bloom through
In moonlit paths.

Rough weave of winter fields to it
Embroidery of spire and synagogue
But always this tang of laundered light
Iron-seared lustre from long afternoons
And then the first lamps lit.

When the tanks came we tore it into strips
To twist around frost-eaten heels stuffed inside
Stinking boots. We wrapped its tatters
Over our throats and heads.
What’s left is burned.

Now we stoop over, a line of women,
We unpick
One dry knot for a baby to gnaw on
In its crying hunger. A snatch of blue in the mud
An eye that won’t close.