He must have been nervous waiting at the church.
She'd got through two husbands already:
the first stabbed himself with his pitchfork,
a careless yet difficult achievement;
the second, they say, dived from the crow's nest
to rescue a sailor overboard,
but misjudged it and hit the deck -
unusual for a lookout to leave his post.
Fell, jumped or pushed, he left her
once more widowed,
and Daniel, nervously, number three,
odds on for a suspicious end...
although he died in bed at 90,
presumably just good enough
for her very demanding family.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
At least she kept going with marriage number three, isn't life about the person you become along the way - being nuctured and growing with each episode in life moreso being allowed to do so freely...... sorry I am rambling x