Amarok

 

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

birthing in a hut reeking of resin?

How could they live in a place caked in crud?

Plainly not the first time she was pregnant –

even more plainly she needed succour.

Clutching on the crucifix to lessen

the pain – also biting on that bark spud –

the outgush of humours was incessant.

After a moment he had to demur –

she had to hush for he had to listen:

only the carmine dripping on the mud

could be heard: the babe had fallen silent.

'Course death in this hovel had to occur,

with food not even fit for a raven!

The last straw was this unending red flood –

the master'd tarried helping his tenant.

He grimaced sullenly at how things were –

there was no way on earth and in heaven

his wooden clogs weren't spoilt by black blood –

God his witness he hated this peasant.