Lament of a War Widow
Late yesterday,
the guns sent you to sleep
my love.
The birds are not singing today.
The house lies still in safe slumber.
I sip tea, staring at your photograph,
a vain ghost of the man I once adored.
It is Sunday.
I take the cage from your room
and slip out soundless, closing the door.
The street speaks of our grief.
The trees stand stone silent
in salute. Leaves lie scattered
across the pavement. The wind here is powerless.
I drive the red Mini out to the bridge
where we met in secret, my love.
The cage sits in the back seat;
the birds rejoice in the morning yellow.
You spent hours cooing and coaxing
Charlie and Alex;
I am grateful for the company they gave you.
The wind is so cold out by the river;
the air has turned an indifferent grey.
Clouds shed soft tears.
Remember when we first kissed
here on the bridge, my love?
You proposed to sing my favourite song:
“The Rose.” You murdered it.
The morning grows late.
It hurts me to think of what your
bright blue eyes endured in those
final moments.
I take the cage from the car,
open the door,
and cast the birds
into the sky.
