Gentians

The gentians grow wild upon the heath,
But she will just ignore them in rough grass;
For she is lost in sorrow; in her grief,
Their blue's just irony; so let it pass;
And hours will pass too; the country bus
That takes her into town will wend its way;
And she will reach the morgue; and will not fuss
To see him for a final time today;
And, if a tear should trickle down a cheek,
Then she will discipline it with gloved hands;
And she will show control; for it is weak
To think what might have been; all they had planned
Is gone now, in the harshness of last breath:
Her head filled with that requiem - Ah! Death.