Descending the stairs in that small white house by the lake near the sycamore. There is a lantern lit, but you know the way. You pace. Deep into the night when others have fallen asleep (tend the farm, lightly, gently) you lay still – eyes open – and wait for his coming. You catch your reflection in a glass and hate what they’ve done. It was so long ago and you have for gotten. You have gotten on. But your bones haven’t have they. Have you forgotten your mother? Have you forgotten me my son? Wake. Wake and bring me into battle.