poem

Sean O’Brien White Enamel Jug

The Ardennes

There used to be a white enamel jug,
Its rim precise in Prussian blue –
Likewise the handle with its female curve
Through which a forage cap might fit: the jug
The maid’s deserter drank from, slowly,
Boots off, his feet on the kitchen table,
Raising the thing like a trophy over his head
And licking his white cat-moustache,
While she kept waiting, trying not to laugh
At what a crime it was, behind him
In the doorway, naked, with her hand stretched out.
Midnight was all the time there was.
The stars froze, branches creaked, the cream
Sank in the jug, and so they took their happiness
For there and then and not for memory:
As, in his way, the Major also did
When he had sent his manservant to bed
And poured black coffee from this jug,
Then sat to write the letter home.
He paused, as though to read his palms
Within the circle of the lantern, while the jug
Attended, patiently, a kind of company
The night the war was lost, before
He rose and at the window watched the dark
Until at dawn the forest turned to flame.