Benjamin McGee (Try this form again)

Bats fly at night in moonlit steeples high

above the city street.  A cello breathes

a dirge on mists of fog.  A spade in dirt

creates a grave for one lone man asleep

from wine as red as blood just drained

from lambs out on the farm.  The song cries soft

to mourn the loss of Benjamin McGee.

No doubt a lonely widower he was,

but helped the poor each Monday morn before

the snow began.  It came like screaming ice

so fast her life had not a chance. He thought

he left her wood enough to make a blaze

that night.  He found her blue with frozen tears

under her blackened eyes.  He blamed himself

and was the death of Benjamin McGee.