Jill Warrener

Bath, UK

 

I write poetry and short stories for my own pleasure. I have also written one novel.

 

Date poem completed:  1st July 2020

 

 

Lament

 

Ten pale gentlemen standing in a line,

One turned to marble, then there were nine.

 

Nine shaking aspens whispering as they wait,

One goes dancing with the wind, laughs to sisters eight.

 

Eight painted ladies, their faces chiseled, even,

One dared a secret smile, her face cracked in seven.

 

Seven stones worn smooth by stream, from highest mountain picked,

The oldest one a grain of sand beside its brothers six.

 

Six new-born infants, glad to be alive,

One saw Death arrive too soon, give thanks you who survive.

 

Five sprigs of rosemary fastened to your door,

Give the gypsy one kind sir, and I’ll not ask for more.

 

Four grime-soaked city kids, latched without a key,

Their mouths loud rings of protest, know the price of being free.

 

Three shapes swooping low, calling out to you,

A scream that dies as it is born in the bank of blue.

 

Two small children laughing in the sun,

One fell down and broke his crown, then there was one.

 

One pretty girl in pink out to have some fun,

Got into a car one day, then there were none.