Aug 25, 2013

The Red Slayer's Widow

The ivy creeps on the tower
in stealth to the highest window
where kept in a stony bower
waits the Red Slayer's widow.

Her silver hair
and dark eyes glare
and glimmer in cold
and shadow.

Far below in the dungeons
of the Keep of the White Prince,
the grind of terrible engines
makes the old woman wince.

Through withered years
the sounds she hears
unspeakable fears
evince.

In far gone days she gave
her tender heart
to darkness, and from darkness
shall not part.

Red Slayer's widow, lament.
The blue-silver moon

and the owl on the mere
your doleful accompaniment.


The love that she remembers
for her ill chosen one
still glows in her mind like embers,
and has turned her heart to stone.

Still she remains,
and hears the chains
in the cold dark depths,
alone.

Red Slayer's widow, lament.
The blue-silver moon

and the owl on the mere
your doleful accompaniment.



8.25.13

Aug 21, 2013

The Parson's Daughter

There at the window early
comes the rooster's crow,
and the maiden I love dearly
ambles along also.

She's come to the well for water,
a clay jug in each hand.
She is the parson's daughter,
and wears no golden band.

If I were the fair Queen's soldier,
I'd slay me many a foe,
Nor wish to be one day older,
I'd fight for her honor so.

Yet amid the strife and slaughter
my heart would keep a place
for the eyes of the parson's daughter,
that gleam with queenly grace.

If I were a temple-builder,
with naught but wood and stone,
I'd treat them as gold and silver,
and build as it were God's throne.

Near the stars I'd swing my hammer,
near Heaven my church would stand;
yet still would my fool's heart clamor
for my beloved's hand.

But I am a harness-maker,
an apprentice one at that,
far poorer than butcher or baker,
to whom I tip my hat;

and I've not the courage to query
around for hope nor hint
that the parson's daughter might tarry
to meet this workman's squint.

And so at the window tomorrow
I'll lean my mug at dawn,
and drink the day's draught of sorrow
when she steps over the lawn.



8.20.13

Over the Meadows

One day she will come walking
as stately as a queen,
in spite of the old hens' talking,
over the meadows green.

Her feet will lightly amble
straight to my cottage door,
and then my heart will gambol
and sorrow nevermore.

And naught will give me sadness,
and naught will give me rue;
my heart will be rife with gladness
should this one dream ring true.

One day she will come walking
as stately as a queen,
in spite of the old hens' talking,
over the meadows green.





8.20.2013