A love story of sorts
When Cupid struck his arrow hurt like hell;
it tore my flesh and pierced right through my heart –
but I was glad for you were there, and so
when you proposed, I thought we’d never part.
Some virgin snowdrops delicately sway
upon the breeze that brings the early sun.
I lived a wintry, solitary life
until the day you said I was the one.
My biscuit tin – I kept upon a shelf –
high up so grubby fingers couldn’t touch.
For you, I said, I’ll take the lid right off:
dip in, enjoy, but don’t consume too much.
We set a date – there’s lots to plan and book.
I think you’ve changed, but that’s pre-wedding nerves.
I find the dress – a perfect princess gown –
it’s dear; but still, it’s what a girl deserves.
But spring is here, with rising sap and more.
All snowdrops die – they can’t survive the sun.
It’s time for brasher, brighter daffodils –
their strong tall stems won’t bow for anyone.
I persevere with plans for our big day.
Your interest wanes – I blame it on your boss –
with hours so long, it eats into our time.
You’re out all night – alone, I feel the loss.
Then, casually, you leave the lid ajar –
the biscuits I had stored so carefully
lie broken into shards; their taste is stale –
no good to anyone, not even me.
You break the news, with forty hours to go.
There’s someone else. She’s beautiful and wise.
You leave me with the presents still unpacked.
I ring around; my pain internalised.
My wedding dress stands in the room: a shroud –
its purpose gone; it lets the lies bleed out.
They say to me – the sea is full of fish –
but all I see ahead is one big drought.
And so, dress on, I stumble through the woods;
those crumbs – the only sustenance around.
They find my body rotting into soil.
My biscuit tin lies rusting on the ground.
I wrote this years ago.
It was actually an exercise from Stephen Fry’s “The Ode less Travelled”
I’ve never done anything with it… perhaps I should print it out and bury it in a wood somewhere, in a biscuit tin….