The miasma of grief, the woe, the hate;
The space that's left when you've run out of tears.
The wedding dress that will forever wait;
The nursery door jammed shut for scores of years.
The signs upon the bridge you always change
To bear your name, which they will change to theirs;
The useless trinkets sent in mean exchange
So you can talk of trade, and not of heirs.
The houses, grey as warships, ringed with walls,
Their gardens fertilised with ash and bones.
The silent dances, faking ancient balls.
For fallen foes, a cairn of tiny stones.
Two households old, whose dignity doth fade;
Their lovers each a separate marriage made.
Jenkins Rising 