Classic Poem

We went down to the market.
Your hand inside my pocket
was soft and ivory white,
your eyes two jewels bright
beneath gold locks of hair,
flowers in April air.

We walked where loving led,
and did not look ahead.
We did not see the hens
headless on the fence,
the quartered hogs on hooks,
the butcher’s angry looks,

the crones with wizened hands
behind the tulip stands,
their thin grey hair unmade,
their eyes lit dim from trade,
devoid of beauty’s powers,
but selling the same flowers.