His pint glass half empty,

he’s nursing the blues;

always bitter, never mild,

flat cap and scuffed shoes.

 

She hoovers the house,

with stars in her hair,

sings to her muse,

thanks god he’s not there.

 

As he sits in the pub,

nursing his woes,

the footy is lost,

as the last whistle blows.

 

In her Primarni dress,

she scrubs hard the floor,

heart in her mouth,

dreads the key in the door.

 

He shuffles on home,

with her heart in his boots,

a belly of beer,

and a loin full of fruit.

 

She accepts his gift,

with the grace of a Queen,

a necklace of violets,

blacks, blues, and greens.

 

He broods and he dreams,

cultivating his grudge;

she’s stolen his youth,

this old, plain, drudge.

 

She lies stock-still

as the stars in the air.

He can no longer hurt,

what is no longer there.

 

© Violets 27.03.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

English: Violets by the coast path This year seems to have been particularly good for violets. This is part of a bank also scattered with lesser celandine. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)