A Widow Sits To Tea

Whose sleep rises of deluvial weepings
that tame obsequy upon its office.
Age's refrain: this relief,
fringing abstraction, unreaches arm

to pace their years.

Aspiring toward the gamut rigors of mercy
Knell abridges build as the truancy of moment
blinds all hour

For she winds now of imaged breaks
awaiting hands, removed of breath
to shun the speeded heart
of her dreamt shape...

The light of which love's trod.


© Christopher Brandon Lancaster