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last update:

5th Oct 13

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Isabella: A Bitter Harvest

(after Keats and Holman Hunt)
 
 
 
The eyes that mine once gazed upon; the lips
that smiled and kissed my own; the hair my
fingers long entwined; the tongue that sung for me
alone – each buried, safe, within this pot. The cheek my
hand had brushed against; the ears that heard my whispered
words; the nose that knew my scent so well; the song-voice fit
to charm the birds – find shelter here, within this pot. The blush
that cannot know the sun; the parched throat which no longer drinks;
the dreams, extinguished, unfulfilled; the mind which neither feels nor
thinks – secreted, deep within this pot. The future I had dared to crave;
the children I will never bear; the comforts all denied to me; the burning
loss and raw despair – decaying here, within this pot. The cruelty of a
family; the base betrayal, shattered trust; the passion of a daughter’s
curse; the ties that bound, now turned to dust – such rotten seeds
within this pot. The soil from a makeshift grave; the water,
poured so lovingly; the basil’s gently twisting roots;
the sweetly pungent canopy – all mine to
tend, within this pot.
Protected by an earthen kiss, were ever bones more loved than this?
 
 
 

Sarah Doyle

published in the Journal of the British Fantasy Society, September 2013