Shroud
The shroud she wore
Four thousand times or more
Consumes her hair
Like the country air
By a gasping servant boy

His boots looked of leather
Which mud and twigs gather
Leaving trails on stone
That only she calls her own
In the silence of harsh weather.

"Your release," stammers he,
"The guards shall now free;
Your ankles from the metal
Your willing hands from the kettle,
And may I bow to thee?"

Soft eyes did so gaze
Through the dark-covering haze
Making the boy soulfully rise -
Muting some years of cries,
With his delight and amaze.

Her dirty hand pet his face
Through torn gloves of lace;
But the strength in his stare
And in her selfless care
Were captured in tears beneath her grace.

1998