I listened to Hilda till late in the night.
Her florid accounts of adventures took flight.
She struggled for words to describe how she pined.
She loved her third husband who lived in her mind.

She spoke in great detail of his sad demise,
Recalling his fall and the look in his eyes,
The moment he knew that the end was impending.
He looked for a stairway he'd soon be ascending.

He'd spent his nine lives on near-misses with death,
His triple heart by-pass performed by a vet,
Or trying to flee from a murderous archer.
I'd no need to know of his sombre departure.

I've heard that her fourth husband lived without fear,
And met a spectacular death late last year.
I wanted to know more about the event.
I mentioned the end of this much-admired gent.

But she only spoke of her third husband's life,
And striving to thrive in the role of his wife,
When he was a diplomat, known for his charm,
Proud to have Hilda adorning his arm,

The star of arrivals at opulent balls,
Entering heavenly embassy halls.
On dance floors she fluidly flowed with the sound,
A glide that made others seem glued to the ground.

She'd play the piano with flawless finesse,
Caressing the keys often pounded in stress,
Instructing small hammers to strike tightened strings.
Unlike the destruction a bomber's raid brings,

These minor collisions occasion blue notes,
An ocean of music for souls in their boats,
Where soaring emotions can revel in storms,
And dance with the devil in musical forms,

Or shine in the shimmering water of bays,
Fantasy visions on halcyon days.
The only explosions are fireworks in ports,
Or pirates escaping from improvised courts.

In between pieces she treasured the pause,
The rapturous praise and euphoric applause.
She always felt pleased with her effort's effect.
Famous musicians expressed their respect.

They'd join her to trigger ecstatic ovations
And bring a strong sense of historic occasions.
Poor Number Three would seem lost and forlorn.
The wind-battered sails of his soul would be torn.

He hated the men playing melodies with her.
Malevolent jealousy made him as bitter
As any Herculean tropical lemon.
It's typical of my relations with women.

They won't want to talk about things on my mind.
These matters are always abandoned, I find,
Dismissed from discussions with merciless haste,
Blocked by the wall of their personal taste.

Her fourth husband's shining in history's cast,
But mystery covers his trip to the past,
A prison where no living visitor calls,
And only the risen escape from its walls.

I've heard many rumours of schemers and scammers
And tales told by dreamers of gods wielding hammers
And fabled sea creatures who'd capture your crew
And eat your ship's engines with trees in a stew.

I've been made aware of more credible tales,
Of devious killers concealed in fake whales,
Grey submarines where great troubles are brewed,
Plans for providing the fish with fresh food,

Ample main courses of people on yachts,
Victims who fish from inside cooking pots.
I've heard of a gang who prepared a great feast,
And that is why Hilda's fourth husband's deceased.

To satisfy my growing need to know more,
I'll ask simple questions about Number Four,
And his stunning exit from being alive.
It's crucial if I'm to become Number Five.