Ophelia's Lament
And I come whistling
The lute’s harmony
Close in the dell
The eyes of death
Filled with
Crimsons and yellows
A petal each day
Counted and lost
A brilliant hue
For each joy
Now muted and torn
Each petal laid down
With gentle aplomb
A model
Of its progeny
Unabated
No more can I whistle the lament of this heart
The garland is woven, laid down deep
And bower shall peacefully
Tender to the heart
Its burden assisted
In etchings of pastel
To better keep its promise
Of bitter weeping.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2012