The spinning weathervanes of squandered hopes
have woven pirouettes around my pride.
My battered sense of honour now elopes
with joking wreaths of rash infanticide.
For all the newness latent in this yarn
was drowned in squalls of flood-bequeathing twine
which, trussing me with knots I can’t undarn,
amok with your mendacity combine.
So now that dust has settled on the stone
and peaky-pointed mountainsides of snow
the comprehension comes: You’ll never grow
to see beyond your puerile princess throne.
I wonder wishly what could take your place:
A woman, not a child, must fill that space.
© 2012, Alan Morrison