Widows Walk

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Slow, dainty steps tap, tapping the stones
As a woman daydreams of ghost ships and bones.
The breeze brings the smell of cool ocean brine
From the waves on the beach, passing the time.

The mist lying thick, the over cast skys,
She see's everyday with sad, piercing eyes.
How long has this poor wife stared at the sea
And waited in fear that it may never be?

She yearns for a message or knock on the door,
Anything to prove that he'll come home once more.
A shadow appears and continues to grow...
Could it be? Is it he? There's one way to know.

Down off her perch she flies to the stairs,
Slapping her cheeks and fixing her hair.
All this excitement and what does she find?
A small man who smells of tobacco and wine.

"I'm sorry young miss," he says with a hic,
Then dabbed at his forhead, "Your young man got quite sick.

We called on our doctor, old Donald M. Lee,
 But it was a sickness caused by the sea.
There was no way to cure him. I'm sorry to say,
His beloved ocean's floor is now where he lays."

The wife, now a widow, wailed to the sky,
 "Why, oh why God? Why did he die?"
The poor pungent man tried to sooth her torn heart;
"He wrote you this letter before he did part."

He gave her the message then scurried away,
Wondering what his wife had cooked him today.
Clutching the letter tight to her breast
She wandered inside and sat down to rest.

Gently she opened the seal to the heart
Of the man who's cruel death had torn her apart.
There on the page, scrawled by a weak hand,
I love you Nancy, now I'm off to God's land.

Her tears stopped flowing, for how could it be?

"I'm Megan, you bastard, so who is Nancy!?"

Submitted: November 02, 2018

© Copyright 2022 Figgy. All rights reserved.

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