Across fields he tilled in younger years, he catches
scent of red. Not blood or sweat but tears unshed,
trailed and led by tail that beckons capricious cunning.
Narrowing eyes, he carefully espies a brush of a life –
pelt of auburn, soft curves defined by hill and valley,
skin furrowed a meadow of perfect imperfection.
Bridled and bit by curiosity, charging steed to seek
need of something he cannot fathom. With shot and crop,
wind whips his smile into a bold, blind determination.
Greener and greener he tracks, chasing scent to song,
tail turns to vixen of a girl, writing wild rose ballads
sitting pretty, ankles cuffed by daises to caravan of calling
He catches her hallowed earth eyes, “Good Morning” he cries,
“Bore da” she replies as horse steps through gorse trying
to touch her inevitable heather. Her breeze whispers “Never.”
Raising rifle he fires double barrelled name into her heart.
Stunned serene submission on back of charge, he relentlessly rides
her roughshod through rapefields returning to his unstately home
Through pillared entrance, she wakes, wandering a welcome disruption
in every windowed room. Heather replaces leather, shot removed.
He chides by gun and crop, adorns her with trophies and treasures.
She chastises, rolling in and out of his bewildered bed of bygone pride.
Closed doors unlock his love for prodigal daughter who mocks him.
Outside the horse grazes a remorse for its part in this indecorum.
Slowly the revered curse of middle aged folly bears a gallant courtship
of jocularity. She yields her language and idleness to become his lady.
Her devoted divination deteriorates his decaying walls of roguish past.
Her newly wed coquetry tantalizes and frightens, old blood battles with new.
Retreating outside, he edges stagnant pond with baited kisses for life he remised.
Casting rod and line towards minnows, awaiting his return to tomfoolery.
Unhooked by her persistent palmistry, he looks for horse, crop and gun,
but all have gone. Mansion transformed in his abhorrent absence into
caravan of romanic reciprocity, she flays him with dedicated daises once again.
In laying down his reel, he realises his life is now richer for being poorer,
he is healthier in his sickness, her dialect divine and their fortunes aligned
The circling raven caws an oath to them both – “So mote it be, so mote it be.”
© Katypoetess 2015