Heart of Thistles by Kathleen VanCor I’ve never walked these steps before, and never will again. Steps of slate and mortar packed, made shiny from the rain. More steps yet, but these of wood, roughhewn and coarsely grained. The hoodies croak their sentiments, the morbid bird’s refrain. I’ll never see her eyes again, so bright and deeply blue. Nor will she laugh, sing a song or buckle our wee bairn’s shoe. Her fickle heart won’t beat again and prove to be untrue. She lies down in the churchyard now, where all the thistles grew. I’ll never know such a love again, with passions fully loosed. Was so the day when we were wed and the riding of the broose. But her sultry lies and my monstrous heart could never call a truce. She’s quiet now and I’m resigned to wear the hangman’s noose. Page 77
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