prisoner of war

Prisoners of War.

It has been, there under the surface of awareness,
a memory that called to be clearly remembered,
I could not stop it growing from a vague outline
to a cinema screen clarity

1944, as a five years old, I used to give scraps of
food to Russian prisoner, near our farm; they in
turn gave me wooden toys.

One February day, as I walked there as usual the gate
was wide open, prisoners lay on the ground, and
I heard twigs snap.

It began to snow and it didn’t melt when landing on
white faces; unable to move, stood there till bodies
were covered by a shroud of snow… and endless was
the stillness.

A man came, walked me back to the farm, never told
anyone what I had seen, perhaps the farmer knew
he spoke of nightmares.