She met a Tranter at the crossroads,
and lifted up her skirts.
He stole away the ache and swollen burn,
witch had of late, been nesting there.
He paid her in ripeness,
a bellyful of shifting springtime,
a magical explosion…
forming a glowing sun inside.
She blamed it upon the Miller’s boy,
whom she’d been known
to often ramble aimlessly with.
They wed well before season’s end
and settled down to a monotonous life
of resentful familiarity and ‘Give & Take’
But, she still sits up late upon full moons,
window-peering down the country lane,
hoping for one more glimpse
of those Tranter tracks again.
He smelt of fur and pinecones,
scrumpy cider, the road, tobacco
and every manly thing this side
of both Heaven and Hell.
‘Twas no Devil she’d lain down with
in the side-meadow that day
but a momentary and tangible
delicious taste of freedom’s fleeting kiss.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096