Maiden Poem by Michael Bergman

On a moon-lit evening,
Mist and fog-laden;
upon the damp, beaded clover
stands the weary, widowed maiden.

Her silky cheeks salty
from the crooners somber cadence;
songs of mutual memory and merriment
relished, together, in sullen radiance.

A variety of hands hoist their ale
while a fatherless vitality in her womb pale;
preserving poise, she does not dare tell,
enduring strife, like that of a Celt.

Atop the bed of ice, her husband slumber;
the revelry dispersing upon the echo of thunder;
comrades and kin bid their farewells, forever,
wishing fortuity in his incorporeal endeavors.

On a moon-lit night,
rain and fog-laden;
upon the saturated, beaten clover
weeps the worn, withered maiden.

The wind – a cautionary banshee
screams transient through the trees;
while the child within the warmth of the womb dreams
upon this patch of clover from which it was conceived.

Departing homeward, requiring respite,
seeking refuge from this ghastly twilight;
through the forest, haunted and mist-laden
travels the weary, widowed maiden.