Letter to a Woman with a Child Never Born

To Kill A Mocking Girl

Today, splendid Child, as I was frolicking in the delicate April breeze, I have plucked you from the meadow, your honeyed odours falling in drops on the musings of my heart, apple of my eye. You lay sleeping, slumbering, rolling in the soft dust your dreams are made of, curled up between the early tulips in tones of orange and coral and cherry-red, but I only had eyes for you, stroking your petals painted blackest of night, beautiful one. Yesterday, heavenly Child, the pear-shaped tears of March’s downpours mollifying my skin, I have taken you from your bed of flowers, without permission, you were breathing my name, chiming like a cascade of water falling to splinters on the creamy lake of my eardrums, my beloved. You mirrored me, the one who gifted you with life, save my fair locks of hair, since I crowned your blossoms, those divine little ringlets…

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