"Until I smelled the fragrance
of the cut grass, I didn't believe
I was home again," said the young soldier
back stricken from the battle on the Canal.
And I, who was stricken after him, fifteen years
from my bed: drunk as then climbing
to the clay hilltop, flattening myself
on its grass. And reviving in its
good warmth: like a child coming back
wrapped in the sweet fragrance of Mignonette.