A river of frailty
Will run through me 'til at least ever
Today graves were dug with a tongue
Laying heads on the Carpenter's bench
For wings did carry my memory
But I've only these lead boots to lift me
Groping blind in the cemetery
In a dancing frock
Sinking deeper and deeper into the ill-memory dust
Love's breath would surely not be stony cold..
Oh no..
Our lost pitter patter of tiny maybe-feet
Tripped up on the marble of her
(c) Dot Allison 2007. All Rights reserved.
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