He’ll burry her in that old coat,
Made of wool knit across her knees.
On the mudflats off the stone coast,
Her bottle broke the bow he took to the sea.
While the others returned with their hulls full,
She waited patiently,
Twisting thread between her thumbnails,
Oh the dread she held between her teeth.
Her boy stands tall on the old wharf,
Now he’s screaming, “Mother please,”
And she’s knee deep in the white surf,
Waiting for her son to leave.
Alone is the widow, the gulls and no mast to the east.
And she’s the sheep he kept to stave off the grief.
The pennies they saved only to place in her eyes.
And the love that she gave to him and now she’s gone,
She’s gone,
He’s gone,
So the boy let her leave.

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