HER RESTING PLACE.

A MAN THINKING BACK TO AN ADOLESCENT LOVE.

You imagine

she still lies there,

still having made love

has that satisfied look,

that we did it

once more gaze.

All gone now,

all in former days.

The house has long

been sold, others

live there now;

the bed long gone,

gone for scrap

or firewood,

at least that

wooden frame.

You think on

that peasant way she had,

the lifting up

of legs and thighs,

the brightening up

of those liquid eyes,

the play of smile

upon her lips,

then love making over

and resting side by side,

that sense of

we did it again,

a little adolescent pride.

Death had her marked out

even then you guess,

cancer making plans

of conquest,

ticking time,

the clocks all set,

an all off certain bet.

And yet,

still you think her there,

laying abed,

eyes bright,

legs and thighs lifted,

the lips pursed

to kiss,

all love talent gifted.

Gone now,

some resting place

marked and squared off

for some to see,

flowers bought and laid,

attention and respect paid;

but where she's rested

you don't know,

no last farewell,

no last kiss

nor given

nor made, you're afraid.