April evening in Avon

The lady walks by, hands in leather gloves

Looking for the poet everyone claims is lost.

Here is the street he once walked down, 

Here is the woman he loved. 

His children, his bed, his home and hearth. 

How can a poet be lost? 

A tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide, 

A tiger in the well, waiting to drown. 

A wall of wintery emotion is blocking the Lady's way. 

The sign on the door- Johannes Factotum. 

His own private joke, to mock those who mocked. 

Somewhere far away, far in her memory, 

Covered in the heavy snow of April. 

Second best she was, always second. 

The pale musty sheets of the wedding night stained crimson.

The Pheonix and his lover, Lady Turtle Dove, 

And above the scarlet sails of Avon sky

As she walks, twisting words in her mind, 

Thread in her hands,

His last breath echoes-

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear

To dig the dust enclosed here

Blessed be the man that spares these stones, 

And cursed be he that moves my bones.