It was a summer
or its ending.
That afternoon you were
dressed for the first time
in your shroud,
and never noticed,
because of the printed
flowers on its cloth.
Notes on this poem
Reproduced by permission of Hana Amichai.
It was a summer
or its ending.
That afternoon you were
dressed for the first time
in your shroud,
and never noticed,
because of the printed
flowers on its cloth.
This subscription includes three issues a year plus access to our digital archive. You will be charged £23.00, recurring annually.