The poet and his widow

I thought to speak to
The poet’s widow
To tell her of how
Half a century ago
Short of a year,
Seven times seven
Years in the past,
I met with the poet,
I and two colleagues,
& he wrote us a poem.

Her bookshop is empty,
A desolate sight
Shelves full of dust
A building site.

Over the road
& through the gate
The canopy of beech trees.
I ruminate

On the immature archetype
I was then
I too, a poet
A younger man.

Mid October
Brown leaves tumble.
At the way of all flesh
One must not grumble
I think of two women
I’d like to impress.

You were his second wife.
With all that he managed
He lived out his life.
Of his first marriage
How did it end?
Should one be generous?
As women see men
All poets are evil
Faithless and treacherous.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License