Monday, April 11, 2011


May Bea

May Bea was a young girl  when her widowed father keeled over in his garden, clutched his chest and died
Left her caretaker of the cottage and his roses, both of them  his pride

May Bea had planned to go to schooling a teacher she was certain she would be
But first the roses needed pruning, growing up there round the willow tree

May  Bea wore a hat upon her head but her hands in the wormy earth always they were bare
The roses bloomed in manic  profusion pouring o'er the garden under ceaseless songful care

Out in front the garden there  was a fence, a slat gated, simple white painted thing
Out there, on drifted air any passer by, could clearly hear sweet May Bea sing

May Bea sang in her high contralto, her tones at first pitch perfect crystal clear
Sang the songs of her father's boyhood country, the notes he held so dear

Months  they kept on melting one year soft as rose petals becoming five, then ten, and on
Blue veins sprouted neath her white skinned hands and pushed her youth til it was true begone

Miss May Bea kept on singing for eighty years, although at last her voice  grew whispered low
Her tattered hat slipped from her head, on rose strewn ground Miss May Bea, gardened go   
May Bea had planned to go to schooling when her garden chores were through
Only there always was a something that was in desperate need for her to do 


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