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This is the old forest,
Filled with dutiful widows.
No sound comes
From the withered drums of their faces.
The cock and bull lies of Paradise
Twitter like small birds round their heads,
While some inflated angel tries
Its cloak and dagger stuff.
This inner curve is where I sit,
Twisting my love knot.
The bald facts cringe
At the trap door of their fates,
Waiting for stylish ends;
Some easy sniper who'll befriend
And aim for the heart.
Narcissus shivers in his wet set piece.
Dirty weather. Fuddled joke.
In this dark idyll,
Hope sits lonely like a sacrifice
And moans.
© Wendy Bardsley 2014