Fiona Three

From her white garden seat, she carries a load, secrets spill like poppy seed, stuff you keep, like fancy French cologne, she whispers her feelings, let others weep, surrender perfume soaked, to drink their whisky neat, living by a swollen creek, the bible has a hold, grandma just rolls her sleeves, a rifle next to the sheets, she's no rolling stone, no better cure than ease, doesn’t bathe in love's defeat, isolate but still at home, time for feasts, she measures the string beans, no public telephones, down fields of blue wheat, she's not alone.