Array ( [sid] => 30550 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Widow [time] => 2004-01-01 15:31:07 [hometext] => Still messing with ideas (of my own and other people) [bodytext] => The white cloud, so lonely in the sky,
Deep blue ceiling that it sailed through,
And as she looked out across the ocean,
The stark wind played with her hair.

Far away in Flanders where he went to die,
Her captain was brave, his duty to do,
In that stinking place he was a leader of men,
He led from the front, he lays with them there.

The chill brings a tear as she asks why,
She knows many others ask the question too,
Not now a matter of coming home when,
Just the need of knowing he is buried where.

A shout, a scream, a depressing sobbing cry,
She asks of her captain, “Lover what happened to you”,
The words lost to the gale across the heathered glen,
Another war, of the dead does anyone really care?

The young widow in black cried, as all widows do,
The stark wind played with her hair. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 263 [topic] => 57 [informant] => jonteD [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => war ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Widow


Widow
Date: Thursday, 1st January 2004 @ 03:31:07 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: jonteD
The white cloud, so lonely in the sky,
Deep blue ceiling that it sailed through,
And as she looked out across the ocean,
The stark wind played with her hair.

Far away in Flanders where he went to die,
Her captain was brave, his duty to do,
In that stinking place he was a leader of men,
He led from the front, he lays with them there.

The chill brings a tear as she asks why,
She knows many others ask the question too,
Not now a matter of coming home when,
Just the need of knowing he is buried where.

A shout, a scream, a depressing sobbing cry,
She asks of her captain, “Lover what happened to you”,
The words lost to the gale across the heathered glen,
Another war, of the dead does anyone really care?

The young widow in black cried, as all widows do,
The stark wind played with her hair.

This poem is Copyright © jonteD


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