The Widow's Prayer

The sky was dark and monochrome When the blacksmith's labour was brought home By his widow on a hired horse gig Seated like a broken hazel twig On his coffin, favouring a local burial In a churchyard south, not boreal A place -close to her heart, her children. Frowned on by a vanguard heart-stricken She didn't care what they all thought After all, she'd be alone and distraught. 'Oh, hear my prayer, Lord of all.' In who's heavenly realm now, my shawl Waits empty in the hands of my beloved Please grant him one last final lovesick- kiss before life's tempests turn on me. Like militias in a battle cry fighting ennui.