A Poetess worth words

 

In my shoe I put the pilgrims flower,

Yellow heart and purple petal

The little star , Speedwell.

Through wooded lanes I climb,

Where rowan tree and cowslip

Bloom in froth of cream

And scent the air with

Procreation’s smell. Soft thunder

Of the waterfall, urgent torrent,,

Pillar of white liquid life ,a strand

On the mountain’s slatey shoulder

Where it breaks the skin-deep green of field.

Up on the lands by Kendal

I am walking dale and fell,

In Wordsworth country.

 

Dark she was, her smile

White as the wave crest

Breaking on the shore of future’s land,

Hair was in   braids about her face,

 Her poems in a notebook,

Spoke of the  freedom to desire,

To answer the inner voice with deed,

Not to be a piece of trade,

In  a family deal  in   Pakistan.

Sermons from the sure-men

 Did not her spirit tire,

Shafilea, a Queen of Sheba, she

Was a  poet born to bloom unheard

Her lyric throat burned by bleach

,Her words scalded from the world,

Her   sweetness snuffed by a killer’s care.

Where are the  words in verse or rhyme,

 To honour her, or name the crime?

 So perhaps the thugs chose well

To lay her body by a stream,

In a wooded dell, in this

The poet’s country,

well worth the words.