Sarah Jones | + Follow Poet |
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Violet

In London, away in a terrace
Half-hidden with elm trees and grime,
Lived young Violet, in her parents' house,
Left alone for near all of the time,

As her mother had no patience to teach her
And her father was working all day,
Violet read to herself through her childhood
Forgetting her seclusion in play,

Any friends she made as a young woman
Would laugh at her stitches and cloth,
For they knew that Violet was quite useless
And so showed their neat needlework off,

Poor Violet kept trying her best, but
Each time everyone ran her down,
She retreated back into her mind's warmth
Far away from that cold-blooded town,

Then one night, as the raindrops were piercing
Through the rueful, restricting twilight,
Violet threw on her Sunday attire and
Did at once in the darkness delight,

So she ran through the alleys and gardens,
Dancing down the pitch-black London streets,
Her beautiful dress flew about her
As she skipped past the other deceits,

Violet's stories swam round in her memory
As she flew through the night and the stars,
And she bathed thoroughly and with relish
Until Violet was cleansed of her scars,

Now her heart was open and happy,
So she laughed and fluttered her tail,
Carelessly gliding free through the water
And onwards to the ocean did sail.

As the weary sun rose on the next day
Her friends could be seen on the pier,
Dabbing at their dry eyes with their hankies,
Voices straining trying to sound sincere,

"It has hurt us so indescribably,
That because of her poorly-sewn hems,
Violet felt she was inferior to us
And has drowned herself in the Thames."

Violet's parents had not yet noticed
The absence of their only daughter,
And they would understand even less
How she came to be dead underwater,

But Violet was now free to prosper,
To swim and to dance and to glide,
And with angels and mermaids to play with,
She would always in her dreams reside.

Copyright © Sarah Jones | Year Posted 2007

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