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Molly

Poor Molly met her death today,
‘Twas murder so the whispers say.
I knew her well, for her I grieve,
May paradise, her soul receive.

The evidence was quickly found:
Ripped garments on the bloody ground.
The last place where this girl had been,
But Molly’s body nowhere seen.

Was it a dingo passing by?
Perhaps an eagle from the sky?
Who done it? Now the question begs.
Some scattered feathers – no more eggs.

© Dennis N. O’Brien, 2013

photo © Donna Griffin (used with permission)