104
IN THE ASHES
Beneath her hair, they told me, when she lay Ready for burial in the small bush inn, There was one bullet mark to pay her sin,Her small white hands were folded. Did she pray? After her death? (In life not much, I vow!) Pray to the God who would not hear her now.
But he died harder. When I saw her there I understood how he would fight for life, Although he had no weapon but a knifeWith which to parry bullets. She was fair, And Death was not an easy thing to choose 'When there was life—and life with her—to lose!
But they were very quiet when they slept On those rough trestles. So we laid them down Under the weeping myalls. Then to townOne for the sergeant went. But I—I kept Pact with the promptings of a strange desire And rode to find their little burned-out fire.
There was a wattle blooming at the edge Of that thick timber, and it spilled its gold Before my horse's hoofs, as though it toldOf golden reeds that rustle through Life's sedge, Making papyrus over which to write Record of hours that were all too bright
For mortals living. Death had given them these, Ere for himself the price he claimed I know. There was some special glory in the glowOf that small camp-fire shining through the trees, And that, ere each crisp twig on it they set Often across its warmth their hands had met.
