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Sylvia's Grave
The woman's face was twisted,
as she hacked his name from the stone.
The cold October morning,
the darkness and the rain.
The spittle flew out of her mouth,
the hatred she could barely contain.
In the woman's bitter heart and mind,
there was nobody else to blame.
Was it because she was a great poet,
that we still remember her name?
Or because of the manner of her death?
Was it really Ted to blame?
Her head slumped in the oven,
the stamps they lay unused.
The children in the bedroom,
a meal of bread and milk.
Was she the great love of his life?
Or is that all a myth?
Honoured in his lifetime,
was he a happy man?
Two great poets forever linked,
both of them knew tragedy,
but who is the victim here?
The woman raised her hammer,
in the cold October rain.
Couldn't she see it was fruitless?
The letters on her birthday, would quickly be replaced.
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