Poetry Archives

Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked,
This child matured to woman unaware,
The first time left alone.  Now dreams once balked
Found utterance.  Max thought her very fair.
Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold,
And purest gold they were.  Kurler was rich
And heedful.  Her old maiden aunt had died
Whose darling care she was.  Now, growing bold,
She asked, had Max a sister?  Dropped a stitch
At her own candour.  Then she paused and softly sighed.