Willow

She lies in a separate shadowy space,
that is largely unattended.
Cut off from the world in 
death as in life.
Covered by a comfortless blanket of
angry thorns that – like him –
seek blood if approached incorrectly.
From the wrong direction,
on the wrong day,
at the wrong moment,
one second too soon,
lacking the right answer.
(Which she rarely seemed to possess)
Sad, headless stems in small pots with
faded ribbons fall at her feet – 
as she did at his.
Each time the last.
Each time the last.
And at her head a struggling willow.
It’s potential, like hers, slowly 
choked away from lack of care.
Wind, rain, sun and time 
all now conspire to strip away
a little more of her name each day.
Soon leaving all to wonder
who she was. 
She lies in a separate shadowy space,
that is largely
unattended.

abusefree verse

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