Maud in Weeds

by grimbeau

Thigh-deep wading in the river, a band of
Fading lilies in her hair she whistled into
Cool air as the black night rested among
Its retinue in St. Cuthbert’s belfry.
This is not the dawn of last year, nor more
Than it is another night of wonder.
For there, beyond the railway sleeper
Love is rising