The Last Cuckoo In The Nest Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Even to be near or look at her
Question, do we stop & console
Or walk by at a stroll
We'll walk over, do you concur
She carries a basket of eggs
Sits by a coppice that's--regrew
Her own heart's yolk split into
And, cries out her teary dregs.

Her pink knees & legs tremble.
To the sobs that go unheard.
Birdlike in a nest, it sits inert.
So deeply hurt, it's distressful.
Young lady, brush yourself down.
Remove that frown, he isn't worth it.
If false, he was counterfeit;
Not fit to lie beneath your eiderdown.