Etched with love,
Her hands have grown frail
Although crafted with beauteous art.
Bearing two rings over time,
But one love do they caress.
Now two hands, never apart.
They did once stroke
A windswept mane of bristled stone.
Until they become pebble-dashed and crimson,
When from her silver steed
She was thrown.
As the sun still rises,
So do her hands.
To offer a motherly embrace
And although the sun sets steadily,
An ache weighs upon her heavily.
They are aged but full of grace.
They have felt.
People to be seen no more.
Smiles wiped away
In a swift ballet,
As they exit through the final door.
by Rohan Williams (16)
Competition - The Poetry Trials
Copyright remains with the author.