The Widower Donnabhan Dreamsbygreenmountaineer©
The fire spat thrice when he awoke
Like a fog bottom night when folk
Tell tales on All Hallows' Eve,
But summer sins with her still seared
And burned him now as she appeared.
“Be dream or ghost, debauchery
Is in my deep green eyes,” said she,
"Besides, Dear Heart, I need a good foin.”
As summer sins with her still seared,
He foined her indeed whilst she did moan
And lipped his lobe to whisper thus:
“Hear Thee this, Heart, hear Thee this:
I will be gone and life goes on.
Thou must find His Mercy in life
As foreknown, some friends, and a wife
To comfort Thee. No, no, Dear Heart,
Hear my rhyme, you must hear my rhyme:
Thou shalt find me there beyond time.”
The ghost of a fire then spat
And all was black just like that.
Morning has birds that play and sing
At sunrise, taking to wing
In the meadow, much the scene now
When he awoke with a brow
That thither felt no gentleness
Nor birdsong, much less the rest
That he was breathing now.
“Sleep,” a whisper then said,
"No more to wake the dead, no more to wake the dead."
Send private anonymous feedback to the author (to post a public comment instead).