She stared at the stone arch for hours after he left.
At the field beyond, and the tree.

The single tree where he first stole her kiss,
Her heart, and her sainthood.

The single, innocent tree
About to be murdered by her husband.

“I shall burn it until the flames light the dungeons of hell!”
He screamed.

Her husband. Her old, worn out husband,
With the breath of a dragon and the heart of a wasp.

Her husband. The one who paid for her in gold, five stones,
Before she got too old.

Her husband. Who could no more give her a child than could
A cuke left too long in the sun.

“He’s not coming back, wench.” he screamed. “he’s on to the next
Ripe fruit, to lay bare and pluck.

She stood, barely listening to his feeble rage. His voice,
Hardly a whisper of the bellowing old goat he once was,
Rattled like a bat in a cage.

There was a child in her womb. Not her husbands, but his.
She stared at the distant gate, beyond which lay her peace
In a welcome grave of peasantry.

He said he would meet her there. She had to believe.