She wasn't precisely a criminal,
nor innocent of sin.
An Asymmetrical warrior
and a Republican to the end.
To Londoners, she was a terrorist
To the Irish, a voice from the past.
She wound up, old and embittered,
Determined that Peace should not last.
She 's survived by her sons and her sister
and some tapes that Sinn Fein brands lies.
She was known as the "Old Bailey bomber"
in the time of the Troubles gone by
Her coffin was draped in the colors.
Her comrades in arms standing by.
The living now are greybeards
and the rising moon is  not nigh.

You are Dark, my Dove and sweet.
Like Eve, you tempt me, and I eat.
Oh! Dark Deliciousness!
Oh! Bittersweet!
Your taste- like heaven!

but I shouldn't cry out
here in Seven-Eleven

A weeping willow near the window,
twins by an arrangement,
                                     none planned
shared now by humans and nature,
evokes associations of many dimensions.

The window broods
over the transactions
across its bars
     and when closed
               through transparent glass.

The window invites the vista
of willow inside,
                               it's thankful,
without the window,
willow knows, it has no parallel life,
                inside the  house of dancing light,
                              it's human complexities
                             love and strife, whispers and shouts.
                                            All this go in to the window's account.

At the dead  center of night's eerie stillness
the willow wistfully turns
its attention towards the window closed,
with curtains drawn,
no footsteps, whispers
                    or shouts that terrifies
                           as happened many times before.
Silence, molten silence
nothing else.But why does the willow
still senses an animal presence?

Suddenly a  meaninglessness,
grips the willow near the window;
               it yearns to be away from the humans.

Near the open window
a pale lean woman is seen in panic,
a mean looking man frantically tries to kiss her,
the willow howls in pain,
the wind says hush, hush,
willow weeps without tears.

In another night lit by a pale moon,
a jealous lover looks out of the window
for his lady love,
he thinks hiding behind the bushes;
he doesn't know the truth.
With a shudder the willow finds
her corpse below it,
crumpled like a soiled night dress.