She gave her love to innocence and trusted in its fate
It would have by and large been right,  and hate,
devoured by passions stronghold, would never have a grip
If love as had been promised had not had a chance to slip

For disappointment's misery soon stroked it's sad caress
And with that stroke defiled her hopes of everlastingness
With its lost embrace she tried to gather what she could
And clung in maddened ignorance to anything she should

As gifts lost all their value, sentimental once, but now
A relic of their former joy, a painful memory how
In days of treasured impulse cheapened toys became a treasure
Now disembodied artifacts devoid of any pleasure

She turned to clay and with time's help returned to mould again
The joy she had remembered in the bed where she had lain
And with each sculptured touch became the creature she once knew
And innocence caressed her back where seeds of love once grew

And sprang to life as pure a joy as age could well define
As older grows so casts a mould of memory's pitted line
Not for pain but beauty there and having been before
To add to love experience, too perfect to ignore

For now with wisdom's sheltered cloak she rises as a queen
And wears her scars as beauty, not paraded, seldom seen
But there to bear defense against attempts to rob her twice
And stand as a reminder to obey her own advise
 

Ian Kerridge Nov 1995               back to Poetry Index