Pity

No sooner had we left than I regretted
Going with you.
The price one pays for pity.

I was embarrassed
How shy and quiet you seemed.
Others found you odd

Or so I thought,
Being twenty-one
And ultra-sensitive

To what I arrogantly
And mistakenly believed
Were others’ feelings.

How blind I was, how selfish,
How pitiably wrapped up
In my own self-importance!

We inter-railed round Spain
The south of France, north Italy,
Ending up in Switzerland.

The sharp wedge of the Matterhorn
Rose magically above the hostel
Full of drunk Germans.

You turned in early.
I got drunk and cursed you,
Remembering how I’d snapped at you

Earlier on the beach at Nice
Where we were sleeping,
And afterwards felt guilty.

In Strasbourg we admired
The doll’s house Fachwerkhäuser,
Kitsch balconies, geraniums,

Drank beer in smoky Gaststuben,
Which eased the silences between us,
Not knowing then that you,

My only sister, would so soon
Carry the tumour that would prove to be
The death of you at only twenty-nine.