NaPM April 03 2016

[milo]

The Old Carnation Seller

- She lives in leaves, he said,
much more than in the walkways of
this town, the school, the bridal shop
in which her sister's due to stand.

The sermon went like that,
a glory to the dead and bright.

The tomb was much the same:
her pale face designed to stand
above the place where Christians might,
on bended knee with gaze upraised,
observe a tear inside
the cranny of a downcast eye.

The year was 1868.
I loved her more than any lad,
who may have given dowry to
her selfish dad, her sullen mum.

(Does each and ev'ry saint
deserve a cold and vacant home?
The root as stony as the sprout?)

I saw her in the churchyard last,
immersed in conversation with
an old and hobbled man.
A wicker basket hung on one
outstretched and resting arm,
across the low stone wall.

His basket brimmed with carnations,
the centre beige, the skirts red-flecked.
- A metaphor for life, he grinned,
along his worn and charming face.

(These things I somehow knew,
despite a space betwixt ourselves
that should deny the eavesdropper.)

She listened, rapt,
and like a dream the earth gripped me,
so even though I saw the end
that waited for her crippled gaze -
although to break this union
I would insult the tombstone maze,
and vault the graves to take her arm -
I couldn't save her from the harm
this old carnation seller brought...

Away they danced,
and as I watched, below a tree
I saw him find a new captive:
a rich man decked in livery,
divorced from his lost horse-and-trap.

Jesus Christ this is good, Jack.  You were waiting for this one, weren't you?