3rd Place – Penny Hope of Eastbourne
White Lake
Father,
who gave me words,
why do I keep returning
to the White Lake and the willow’s
weeping?
For you
this song of lake
and wood, this sad patter
of rain-song and weeping, this slow
pacing.
I met
the wine of song
at the little Milk House,
here beside the crooked, sullen
willow.
And here
I took the hand
of the demented lady,
let her lead me to her heart-wrung
melody.
Willow,
sallow salix,
wanton in grief, wedded
to the water, double up in
sorrow.
Milk House
Little Milk House
Oh why did I haunt you?
What solace could your bring to one who
mourns?
Again
I kiss the lips
of the stone man, stone man
who has no breath while birds sing, while
air sings.
Willow,
beside the lake
in its milk-white waiting,
brush the tombstone, sweep us clean
of grief.
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