Eurydice

Some say hell is a picnic
of burnt cherries
Still others say
the ants attack
and carry off the baby

I say hell is nothing at all
and may be just the ticket
for those who've been too busy

It's wind whistling through
a hint of a ribald sailor's song
you can't quite catch the words to

It's a rum running river
where you forget and forget
where the fish have no eyes

It is a moss-soft place
where one is sleeping
and dreaming of moonlight
blooming lilies
on a stony hillock

only to realize
the rooting
takes place
in one's pate
that mutable clay

Lucy Simpson, 7/2010 

Lucy Simpson, 7/2010