Cold Hearts

Snowdrops and budding barberry,
birds singing in the hedge,
memories under the ivy: even in Winter
there is some beauty in the cemetery.

I must say you were right:
no one can replace a mother.
Yet I never will lay flowers on your grave:
they can save those in Hell.

Why did you drag
her name through the mud?
I know you cry tears of blood.
I’m sorry.

Cold hearts beat slow
in February.
Maybe I’m just not ready.
I know I should,

but I do not forgive you.

© Frédéric Georges Martin