He walked the plains

in days of arid lust

his hands had held the worst of dreams and dust

and in the night he saw her glinting eyes:

 

a faery goddess, slender, lithe and bright,

with swathes of hair as fine and fair a mane

as no-one else could know. He deemed her his,

 

and left to make it so. He strode through woods

to find the maiden’s den. He cast his spell

like plaster on her limbs, and sealed the door.

 

Another shadowed thought then forced this beast

to tie her hair, and pull her tendons taught.

He tainted her, indulging sour dreams.

 

 

Enchanted times had turned to empty want,

the one she most desired drifted, changed;

the nights so hard that even hell denied.

 

The knots of rope still held her there, but greying,

split, and frayed, she pulled each hair, she broke

the chain, and left the golden kinks of hay,

 

strands of light turned silver-grey, from yellow

sun to dusty moon, the roots she kept,

and left his walls, his floor, his cage.

 

Stormy, rough, illiterate, her losing frown

with paint splats dulled to hide the nights before,

a warring heart, and hateful mind impure.

 

© Lydia Allison 2014

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