We came back from the pine woods
And greeted, as we passed, the cook
Who had retired early: his daughter died
In a motorcycle crash; now he raised dogs,
Airedales, reddish and affectionate.
A few gardens farther on, it was
Time for coffee and shortbread cookies
In a living-room where portraits brought back
Stalingrad, then the Aurès mountains.
The woman’s voice declared she had never
Liked wars, or the people who made her eat
Under the table when she was still a child.
On the ceramic of the coffee cups
A couple ambled towards a county fair.