Poetry Archives

Needled its way through sound of bees and river.
 The notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves,
Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver.
 The Lady Eunice listens and believes.
Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord,
 His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life.
    She quite forgets who’s speaking in the gladness
 Of being this man’s wife.
Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word
Is kindly said, but to a softer chord
    She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness,