H Poem by chris dawson

Long she shared that room that night,
that long and lonely night,
with nought to aid or comfort her,
no thoughts to serve her plight.

Hovering the indecisive nib
from pot to reed in turn;
the oldest lesson she’d been taught
was the hardest one to learn.

Not a start and not a drop,
no message for that man,
she could not think nor reason
how this tragedy began.

Anne poured loyally from behind,
whilst eyes were fixed to glaze,
the surest note that she could write
would end tormented days.

Cold wind, it made poor company,
and in the candle gloom
a soft and warm relieving tone
spoke softly ‘cross the room.

She stood beside the readied bath,
caressed by roaring fire,
and cast away her nightly dress
and cursed what men desire.

Submerged with grace and purpose,
a moment’s place to hide,
she lived that measured moment when
the river would decide.

As quick as came it went and left,
she rose and took her breath,
another to consider now…
not hers the choice of death.

Steam rose beyond her naked half,
the half not so defiled,
be damned the judge in every house…
for she would keep her child.