The Widower
by
Margaret Cracknell
The wind snatches at my cloak and tosses it about. In silence now, where once we climbed this incline up the cliff chatting in high delight of life and wind and sea, silently now I go cursing the angry sea that took my lovely girl, my darling wife, away from me. So warm, so affable that little children ran to her to prattle on about their day, and she would take them on her knee and kiss their rosy cheeks. With loving hands she'd stroke their hair and tell them wondrous tales, but a mighty storm took my bride away and she was lost at sea. Oh cruel sea so harsh to all that dare to challenge you. You give not back to those that yearn the prizes that you've won. In those dark depths where now she lies do little fishes come and kiss her cheeks or waves caress her golden hair that floats in that green light?