The Widow's Prayer Poem by Mark Heathcote

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.