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901





by

Christopher F. Mills





For my beloved River Delta

Happy Mother’s Day

I love you






901



Nine-hundred and one years ago

The poet had no coinage

for castle or home,

Car or carriage,

so over time, He made

a citadel of rhyme;

Verse by verse, he labored

and built,

Over the gate was writ

fair words in gilt


Inside were the nooks,

Where in sunlight and shade,

She read her books,

Outside were the gardens,

Ten-thousand rose's to bloom,

Which she enjoyed from the privy,

Or the master-bedroom.


In the morn on waking,

She'd stretch in her bed,

Wake the poet with kiss,

And pull at his leg,

Off to the kitchen for feast!

Of onion and egg.


Noontime tea

Found The two,

At court around

The Big Old Tree,

Where fairy and elf

Played at night,

They spied on them often

From lofty garret,

Its stones watertight,

But one crack in one stone,

Where, on their stomachs,

They lay

And used it as a window.


In season, the leaves

Of the trees

Made melodies

When the winds rustled

Through them,

She would sing

And he would hum

Each one a fair note,

As they walked hand in hand,

From their keep to the moat,


Where the goldfish would be,

Swimming happy and free

And the moon would shine,

Across the waters

Like a small silver sea.


Here she would dip her finger

Into the waters

And throw him a kiss,

He would catch it

And set it back

Into the channel,

And like a little Love Boat

Around their keep

It would float,

And though set free,

The kiss always came back

In time for high Tea


Now among the ruins

Sits the castle of the poet

Now it is eight-hundred

And eighty-eight years since

Her last kiss was blown

And this rhyme, the record

Of love once known

Among ruins and weeds

Atop Old glories

And older stone

Sits the ghost

Of the poet,

Alone


But the citadel

Has kept







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