Torn, tattered - a rag of silk
A memory in each thread
Touched lovingly, longingly
Trying to forget the dread
Recalling only the song full
Of joy from the nightingale
Lul-ly...lul-lay.
The gentle night exploded
Harsh sounds pounding
Laced with command...
Leave now, move on, rounding
The corner, keep close and stand
Here...be quiet.
Lul-ly...lul-lay.
Her beautiful dress, soiled,
It was what she wore
The rest of her young life,
Until it was stripped from her...
All but the scrap she held
In her hand till the last
lul-ly...lul-lay.
Now, no joyful song of nightingale,
Nothing more to celebrate -
Only the wind that bears the soul
Of a young bride on her wedding day
Who lies now in the arms of her lover
As he gently releases the rag of silk
Lul-ly...lul-lay.
(c)Beverley Isaksen 2007
from I'm Not Leaving Yet
Note: this is the third in a set of five
poems collectively titled "A Bag of Rags"
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