Sometimes it happens that moved by some trifle
the flood-gates of the heart will seize fast.
Then tears that seemed foolish become a great flood,
a passion that defies all explanation.
In the very young you may see it sometimes
when they throw back their heads and howl,
their plump cheeks red, their eyes screwed tight,
their small fists like windmills through the air.
Do not think it naughtiness. It is no show of mere petulance
but the human condition that has touched them.
They cry their frustration with a world so cruel
that it will not let them have and be.
And the elderly too who have least time left for tears
will weep at the slightest provocation.
This may be what love is: to be touched,
to be pierced by this well-spring that has no end.
Yesterday I watched as three baby rabbits
frolicked after sunbeams in my garden.
Such a tenderness engulfed me.
Later, this morning, I counted only two.
Now, this same evening, a summer storm rages.
It tears at the beauty of my poppies.
My heart bleeds to see them crushed.
As you say, my friend, this sadness never ends.
© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley
Delighted to have a third poem appearing in this delightful journal. Big thanks to editor, Elizabeth Gibson.
Imagine yourself on the phone to your sister
who knows she is going to die.
Imagine your neighbour and your neighbour’s children
pressed against their window hoping against hope.
Picture your father fighting to breathe
as the smoke that fills his lungs half blinds him.
Imagine the mother who must choose for her infant
between certain and probable death.
Now picture the scene as the businessmen gather.
Imagine what they said to each other.
Imagine their smooth, untroubled faces.
Picture their pink and white manicured hands.
Imagine for a moment they knew what they were doing.
Imagine that it adds up to murder.
Picture how the truth might look.
I wonder if you can.
I am delighted to have the first of three poems in this journal today. This is an excellent outlet foe poetry. Check it out.
(On the execution of Lady Jane Grey,
Monday, February 12th, 1554)
Not, in truth, a martyr but a trembling girl,
how you must have quaked at the scene:
perhaps the spring surprised the dawn,
silvering the close-cropped winter grass;
and, perhaps, you leaned forward for one last glimpse
and felt your child’s heart leap,
a flightless bird put up too late,
its green wings yearning after skies;
and as he came back, in that blood-bespattered cart,
perhaps, you did cry out: ‘O, Guildford, Guilford,
O, my husband, O, my one true love’
as they lead you then where the scaffold stood
against the tower’s white walls.
And perhaps it was there you shook off
your fear, recalling how he laid you down,
an eager bride, half giddy, in the circle of those lifeless arms,
finding comfort, perhaps, to think how brief
a widowhood was destined to be yours
as you mounted the steps, your eyes still dry,
read your Miserere and died.
Or perhaps you did not. Perhaps you mourned
a women’s life unlived and wept to know the greed
of those who gambled with your head;
cursed, perhaps, the father who gave you up,
the husband who could only whine and die;
perhaps you railed against your fate
even as you seemed so much resigned.
‘I pray you despatch me quickly,’ you said
as you laid your white neck down.
Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt
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