On the widows’ walk the intoxicating perfume
of early wisteria was blended by the blustery March wind
into her own sachet of jasmine and lavender.
The purple vines themselves, grape-like clusters,
crept up the crisscrossed trellis as if prowling
for the invading scents, to repel or to merge.
Her shawl, which covered her head like a mantilla,
whipped in the wind like an ultramarine banner,
as if a signal or a surrender.
Out there where her eyes transfixed,
were yellow buoys, their desolate bells
clanging like church bells, funereal.
Out there where majestic clipper ships
pierced the line of the horizon
lay a promise of the sea
to return to her what it borrowed
two years and three months ago:
the man who hunted whales
and who was the repository
of her heart.
Sonny Rainshine
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-widows-walk/
