Poetry...
Smock
torn rag
she painted in
sun-scorched and tempest-tossed
drained to a threadbare dun
a quarter of a century on
on the capsized garden line
where last she pegged it
still heart lost
and alone
of everything, fluttering still
above the seasons’ changes :
the trees, the path, the lawn - grown
too much for him now -
and my too-late autumnal digging.
Sackcloth or shroud ?
Love’s pennant, only -
defiant flag
he can’t take down.
©2003 Alan Perry
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