You could have folded your wings
like a paper plane; been borne away
on death’s forgiving breath, were it not
for your sin; that of loveliness.
Spring’s hedgerows – blossoming brambles
and white nettles, await your kiss; purple seas
of love-in-a-mist, meadow vetch, and sweet,
forget-me-nots, pucker their lips, moist –
with morning honeydew.
By whose hand were you ravaged?
Who were they, those who forced apart
your wings that only ever embraced
the coolest of sunshine;
cruelly nailed you to this board,
made you fly through eternity –
dignity defiled – innocence
abused. Freedom’s envoy;