Bellever

Bellever

It seems the house is empty now,
the bed barren. A quiet sow
weighs restless in the barn outside.
Light seems to devour all leaves lost.
A spider climbs a dripping eyelid,
buckled, bow-shaped web.
Wife's no longer fit to hoe,
wandered down to humble stream,
cupped what's holy in her hands,
sunlight stranding through the trees
as if a scene could bury sorrow,
beneath a sedum, pinecone sleeve.
The Duchy woods are rotten now,
jettisoned ice asleep on gorse
acid moss hangs in sheets
from stiff and torn, golden limbs.
It's such a bitter Blue Monday,
fungi birthing babes in shade,
a pure Sun impressed on sky,
not sure if comfort comes with Spring
but have bright hope it may.