The Gold Pistol

From the lush photograph of Normandy you laugh,

Pointing a gold pistol out at me.

The Norman hay is ripe, the apples ruby, whatever

You want is yours. Your beautiful Mummy

Smiles down on you with ivory teeth

As the toy catches the sun.

Let's compare lives. You're shooting me

From a countryside I've never seen, in a spot

I thought fenced from trespassers.

You hold your gun well, not meaning

Real injury. I was raised

In a small house on the verge of woods

And we ate what we killed there. The land

Was all around us like a dark rug, it was not

Picturesque. In winter we shot mistletoe from bare

Trees to sweeten the holidays. Its berries, little failed

Pearls, are terrific poison.