Sunday, 29 April 2012

Groated Mange

It is the evening
And the long day wanes
She rests her weary head
On her velveted arm and
Gazes wistfully over the belvedere
Leaving the distaff and spindle on
The marbled floor she gathers her
Sumptuous cloak around her narrow
Shoulders and adjusts her sable tippet
Wending her way from the owl-storied
Tower towards the distant village she
Hums a melancholy tune to herself;
How bitter were the regrets which
Gnawed at the edges of her mind
Until the healing benison of dreams
Repaired the ravelled sleeve of care
Holding her small lanthorn high she
Cast her eye on the mean dwellings
Of the poor hamlet to which her footsteps
Had led her ~ she rapped on a faded door
And was admitted by an ancient crone
Yclept Charlotte by her intimates
Who did not seem surprised by the visitor
Or the lateness of the hour;
She sat down at a rough table
Next to the inglenook and
Warmed herself gratefully
Whilst her aged hostess prepared a
Steaming goblet of posset;
On the scarred wood a heavy trencher
Bore a half loaf of peasant bread
And some vein├Ęd cheese beside;
A salted herring lay atop nonchalantly
Gazing at her with its jellied red eye
Nearby two hard comices rolled russet
"Pray goodie what is the name of
This collation you set before me ?"
Asked the Lady of Charlotte
From fusty lips came the answer
"It be fish on a pears ploughman's"
"Alas we have run out of those
Little onions you like my dame"
"A great pity goodwife I
Was hoping to taking some
Back to my owl-fabled turret
To assuage my lonely hunger
As I await the fickle
Benison of Morpheus"
Said the Lady of shallots.

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