13

As the crow flies from the bars of the frame, the sea lies Two hundred miles away, and she cries At the rolling tapestry, stained a green gaol, A prison landscape cast in a black gale. Her posture, it twists, it begs, beseeches, Arabesque, her hands, outstretched, she reaches For a grip on his life beyond the pallid glass, For her saviour’s return to come to pass. Uncertainty, draped in widow’s weeds and cowl, Bones vibrating as the four winds howl; White talcum skin, burnt black ringed eyes, Light dappled iris flickers and dies. Rain streaks and distorts, opaque like plasma, And she stares, simply stares at the futile miasma; Even when the night creatures goad the moon, She pleads for redemption to transpire soon. Still the pendulum swings in the carved oak chest, A relentless curse that will not lay to rest; Oh, to know of the truth, is he bloodied and dead Or alive with amnesia tearing his head? “If you live, come home, make for the light!” Her lips spill the words softly into the night. “If you live, take heed, make your way back!” She whispers and trembles, nerves poised to crack. When dawn light breaks, she waits fearful of that Dreadful telegram death-fall descent to the mat.