Day after day
Night after night
the Widow Wyile lingers
high up in a cloud
sweeping and sweeping
away at the shroud
thick as fog
dense as pudding
and sticky, so sticky
it’s quite off-putting
but somewhere just past it
when she follows her nose
there’s a filament
of bright knowing
that moves her
into ease and glow 

At last
she’s gleaned the sense
to drop the broom
and lightly go
to ground again
she then looks up
with bated breath
into a whole spangled
firmament dancing
with stars
curtains of current
shifting come dawn
to shapely clouds
wide blue sky
radiant sun calling
new earth forth
resplendent and whole 

She breathes big
sighs her relief
then trills and whistles
ever so loud