markbousfield

WAR WIDOW

Delightful guile illuminates the smile
in the graceful eyes of your body's most recent reveille,

Lighting the way to the trail
of the midday marches with the fairground trade,

smithy laid baskets of bread made
in wholewheat and pine wood nails.

The missed harvest of an angel's belief
divined in cottages amongst angular Snowden's contoured reliefs.

Aquiline water tethered in kicks of hair wearing you like boots,
soothed and comb-toothed, glisteners of amber

collectable, the delectable and flexible members of the Masonry
come quivered and sheathed two fingers deep.

Arrows of brandy wine melt into the 'morrow coming at the end of the day,
nuzzling dowries moss over the skean,

the resufferance of extracting buds from the bought freedom fields
where the celebration of a mid-summer feast

is tarnished less with a war widow's grief,
his corpse buried with heather and poppies up on the heath.