Magdalene Murphy carved
Her initials and those of
Another, into the bark of an
Oak tree, with the penknife
She stole from her father’s
Toolbox in the shed. He’d
Not missed it, least not yet,
And if he did then she’d have
To watch her backside for
The hard slap of his hand. She
Guessed those who saw the initials
In years to come would wonder
Whose they were and what love
They signified and between whom.
They’d never guess it right, only
She knew; even the owner of the
Other initials didn’t know of the
Love felt or if she did, she never
Said or gave hint to Magdalene.
The carved initials seemed almost
Set in stone; a permanent reminder
To the world at large, that one loved
Another once with sufficient passion
To want to carve the initials so and
In such a wilful laboured fashion.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Magdalene Murphy carved
Her initials and those of
Another, into the bark of an
Oak tree, with the penknife
She stole from her father’s
Toolbox in the shed. He’d
Not missed it, least not yet,
And if he did then she’d have
To watch her backside for
The hard slap of his hand. She
Guessed those who saw the initials
In years to come would wonder
Whose they were and what love
They signified and between whom.
They’d never guess it right, only
She knew; even the owner of the
Other initials didn’t know of the
Love felt or if she did, she never
Said or gave hint to Magdalene.
The carved initials seemed almost
Set in stone; a permanent reminder
To the world at large, that one loved
Another once with sufficient passion
To want to carve the initials so and
In such a wilful laboured fashion.
