How is it possible, you ask, to drown
in this small, shallow stream.
You’d have to be mad or desperate,
but then, that’s rational thinking
and teenage girls don’t think straight,
not when they’re in love,
her prince out of his head
and no wonder, such goings on.
But he didn’t have to be so cruel,
say he never loved her, turn her wits
then killing her father like that
and she giving away flowers,
stopping everyone she met.
And that priest, saying her death was doubtful.
What does that mean? Dead’s dead.
She can’t come back and explain.
What does he know.
So I come here every day,
no one minds me, just
a mother who’s lost a daughter,
trying to understand,
find some peace.
Rennie has been writing since he was eleven. These days he concentrates on poetry and reviews. He lives in Kent.