The bright-eyed doe,
she wandered in
on tiny, cloven feet.
And you, my dear,
you came with an axe,
determined to make a cross.
(Whether for bearing
or crucifixion
I never really knew).

Someday I hope you’ll understand
that I had one foot in the grave.
The other was on your chest,
because you never would accept
that your child gloves didn’t fit
my arthritic hands.

Now our islands have all sunk,
and you are vanishing in the mist.
Dressed as I am,
in barbed wire,
you can’t expect me to swim.