metonymy4u

My daughter was an instrument of mercy wound
tight by songs better left alone. I trust you to make
your own meaning was what she alleged by her birth,
then danced a child’s paces with me when she was
three, spelled better than I ever did when I was ten, and left
me before I was already beyond thinking. Her lover
carved her name in a rock beneath the seaward
tower. No one goes there now. She’d warned me
about sin, the young herald of fever, and woke
blind as the summer sun.