Emmeline

A painted swathe of azure blue

Frames trees of apple green

Bright budded fingers reach aloft

To praise the springtime scene

And down below a cold breeze chills the soul of Emmeline

 

Though burnished warmth inflames the glass

And sun’s rays mote the floor

The scent of lilies filters

Through the old part-open door

Yet Emmeline, immobile, stares with eyes that stare no more

 

The birds are singing fit to burst

And flitting ceaselessly

Intent on homes a-building

For new life, expectantly

While Emmeline, her days curtailed, succumbs to reverie

 

A cat, soft-pawed, darts swiftly

Sensing images awry

Her whiskers fine alerted

As she skitters, strangely shy

No more the lap of Emmeline to while the hours by

 

As flies buzz now intently

And a draught whips round the roof

Disturbing sagging features

Whose collapse belies their youth

Pale Emmeline’s tight fingers hold the note that holds the truth

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