folk threw coins into the silent pool, hoping it would bring luck;
not so for a young woman at childbirth, nor the desolate father
who lost both.
Silent, black as darkest night
a tarn waits to drown lost souls
staggering with faltering steps
into still, lead-heavy water.
Cut deep into marble scree,
blind crayfish, pure white,
transverse its grey slimy weeds,
tearing flesh off bloated bones.
Past rotting fish-smelling bracken,
in copper-tainted graveyard mud,
Victorian coins lie, nudged deep,
by foraging bronze-brown tench;
cast by someone once pretty as
buttercups on dry marsh grass,
now yellow ringwormed granite
rests on her ancient remains, and
on those of her tiny child; for
love took both at the breech. But,
she never wished her pennies to
corrode a despairing man's eyes.