deepundergroundpoetry.com

Shrine for a Shrew

   
The crows in the big tree drink silence  
counting feathers after last night's storm  
The rose gardener at number 32    
smiles quietly  
shrugging over his toast  
    
He would have told her  
how hard the ground was this year  
how we needed every last raindrop  
that there would be petals    
to sweep from the path  
   
She would have told him    
how idle he was  
Making sure he knew  
about the crumbs he dropped on the floor  
and that the washing up  
couldn't wait...    
    
But there were no more words  
no more differences    
to quibble over  
no more first things first  
Only the scent of the roses  
soothing the thorns of her memory    
as each new day    
pushed it deeper    
down into the earth  
    
After he'd dug the hole  
watched the concrete
he poured slowly and carefully  
gurgling up over her face  
into nostrils, eyes and ears  
turning fine gray hair to stone    
he had thoughtfully tossed in a note  
to remind her always    
about the beauty of silence  
and its value in the home  
    
For once he'd managed to enjoy    
the luxury of the last word  
and now everything in the garden  
remained silent--  
just like he    
preferred
Written by Abracadabra
Published | Edited 3rd Nov 2014
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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