By Melinda Jane
Your sea soft, melancholy blue eyes
Your long, slender Celtic hands
Your long, curled locked hair
You, at 19 years
You, in 1875
You, Mary Julia Buchan
You would at your glimpse of perfection
Womanly perfection
‘Snuffed Out’
Your candle smothered of air
Your inner glow ebbing and extinguished
At the hands –
“At the hands of an Assassin!”
He who followed you like – ‘Prey’
He who desires to take
He who wants
He who sees your curls and
Wants to possess a lock of it
He who took, your life’s earthly vessel
He who hung on a rope
‘For You’
Coils of rope curled around his neck
And ‘HUNG!’
Mount Gambier Gaol
Your Murderer!
William Page
On a cold, winter’s day
Thirty-four days of waiting
Your tortured SOUL
Now at rest
Your monument still there
The words
I saw
I read
Stamped on your requiem tomb –
‘Our days are as the grass
or like the morning flower
if one sharp blast sweep o’er
the field it withers in an hour’
O your ode in death’s sleep
I have not forgotten you
I do weep
I do verse
I do know, your tragedy of not choosing
Your own death’s path of old age
With your children
Your seed at your funeral graveside weeping
To flower your coffin’s chest
Image provided by poet