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Poem

They were were in
the best parlour
fine furnishing of
Victorian period
dotted all round the
elaborate room
yet a tension, an
unease hangs in the
air 

Hat in hand he
stands before her
father
who hits the roof
when he asks for her
hand
I won't accept any
proposals from a
scallywag
how dare you, Sir
even suggest such a
thing

His wife stands in
front trying to calm
him
fearful he may fly
at the ardent young
man
gently soothing
things over as best
as she can
pointing out the
good breeding, an
Earl no less

Their daughter
mortified pretends
she's not there
so sad of heart as
she hears her father
ranting
will he relent? All
she wishes for, is
to be wed
despairing she shuts
herself off and
turns her back

How does it all end?
That is a moot
question indeed
will his wife talk
him round? Will
there be wedding
bells?
By the haughty
stance and the icy
cold glare from eyes
full of fire
it appears to me
that its a cause
lost before even
began

Yet where there is
love there is also
hope springing
eternal
a father never likes
to pass the care of
a daughter to
another man
pleas from her may
soften his heart,
while words of sense
and wisdom
from his wife who
will not give in
easily; so lets hope
love triumphs

written 08/23/2013

contest Charles
Haigh Wood

I have used the
british spelling of
parlour not parlor
as I feel it gives
better poetic sense

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