Lady Spens at the window It’s black and bitter cold, and the wind’s up. The child won’t sleep. I’ve had her in my arms for hours, singing, piecing together old songs of cats and kittens, rolling down hills and the like. No songs of love and passion. They catch in my throat. He’s been gone two weeks three days, not that I’m counting. The new moon is holding the old faded ball of last month’s. I’ve put the child down. The singing has stopped her crying at least. I stare past the lantern on the windowsill, mute now. My hair is in knots from winding it round my fingers again and again and again. *** His shoes have washed ashore. Stuart Estell
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