Spring Bride by Sue Phillips

The snow in Spring drifts like a feather quilt
With patches, here and there, of leaf and bloom
While sunshine touches all with gleaming gilt;
But as the day warms, it will vanish soon.

A watering can bride awaits her groom
Resplendent in her gown of crystal silt.
He lies beneath the coverlet, entombed.
The snow in Spring drifts like a feather quilt.

What tragedy that tender shoots must wilt
Although there isn’t any hint of gloom;
But even now we see it start to melt
With patches, here and there, of leaf and bloom.

Our bride laments: tears wash away her gown
As he lies there dead, naked to the hilt
And none will tell her how he met his doom
And sunshine touches all with gleaming guilt.

“Why choose to die when he could simply jilt,”
She asks and then lets slip the last galloon
The guilty snow is running off, full tilt
Towards the warming day and then it’s gone.
The snow in Spring drifts.


Sue Phillips is a writer of books, articles and poetry, living in the very middle of England. She would like a less common name, but the good ones are already taken.
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