it wasn’t her fault
it’d been raining
don’t forget and if
he had followed her in
who knows the trouble
he’d have saved himself
(and her) you know all
that wild talk all those
embarrassing flowers
it was frightening
upsetting the way
he would spend whole nights
there staring down at
the brook just singing
no wonder he drowned
sad but what to do
it wasn’t her fault
and anyway as
everyone said she
was much better off
with her hunter (now
there was a real man)
Previously published in PN Review 163 (2005)
Second Nature: James Lindesay’s Poetry 