Listen to poem:
The Son
She passed to her the urn;
it was the second time
the mother had gifted the girl
her son;
the pain clearly showed in her eyes.
He loved you more than me, she said;
she wanted to answer; this was not true
but the gesture had been made
no need to make it harder.
They met one summer, long ago
he a handsome, strapping chap
she, a country rose.
One day among the purple clover
a cherry rivulet ran down her thigh
and they were one.
They never knew such love
his soothing voice
his soft touch
and in the deepest state of passion
the gentlest most delicate caress.
They lived high among the dales
where morning mists
obscured them from the world.
And in the winter, her warm breath
would freeze upon his beard.
One morn he did not wake
and that was that.
For months, she wondered
should she follow?
But
she had memories enough
to fill another lifetime yet.
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