Corn Silk Poem by John F. McCullagh

Beautiful, most men would call her
Five foot two, not one inch taller
Her golden hair, a corn silk hue,
Her eyes, a deep Aegean blue.

Sweet William dead, my wife away
We’d meet in secret at a play
At racecourse with box lunch packed
Or at dinners off the beaten track

A polymath, I swear it's true
An amateur musician too
She wrote the songs
and sang them too.

Alas my life's not free to share
She met another, it's only fair
In my memory she never ages-
Just grows more beautiful by stages.