To a Girl Who Knew What Side Her Bread Was Buttered On
He, through the eyes of the first marauder
Saw her, catch of bright thunder, heaping
Tea and bread for her guardian dead
Crunching the nut-dry words they said
And, thinking the bones were sleeping.
He broke through the muffled afternoon
Calling an end to their ritual's tune
With lightning-like disorder:
Leave the bones, Love! Come away
From their summer breads with the flavour of hay—
Your guards can watch the shards of our catch
Warming our bones on some winter's day!'
Like an ocean of straws the old bones rose
Fearing the lightning’s second death.
There was little time to wonder
At the silence of bright thunder
As, with a smile of pity and stealth,
She buttered fresh scones for her guardian bones
And they trampled him into the earth.