Winter evening let the sky grow dark
The muddy puddles in the green
Splattered across the meadows
Like the palette of an artist.
Drops of perpetual water falling on the roofs of Newnham
Washing up the immorality, unveiling the reality.
Silence was motionless in the village and the light still burned
The lanterns shiny square glass reflected to be Angela,
The light poured through and hung in the heart of the night
Rare glow going through the nocturnal blackness,
Streaming hope to the soul by sufficient reflection.
The lone woman at the place waiting for the better half at Swansea,
This was the case of woman next door before another.
Thunder descended on their door
Full of tension, trembling nerves,
The atmosphere seemed to be an examination.
This recurring element upon doors faded away with the washing of linen.
Terrified women behind doors felt as nothing but disregarded,
By the raging storm that was almost undisciplined.