Folly of Secrets
Should winter cometh before roses bleed
wouldst thou be fair and warm mistress’ fire?
Alas, waiting wife desires the same need
to float upon the night her sparrow’s lyre.
I pray thee, wash away the night’s coldness
Till we lay on thick mat and yield to time,
with secrets that moon shalt guard our madness
thou art mine though we hide fine bliss of wine.
But lo! Thy old dame searches for Lord’s name
clanging gates with neighs, her face known to all
Whilst she rages of us; townsfolk cry, “ shame!”
On eve’s folly, tryst doth claim fools’ toll!
. …….. .
Contest: Lisa Cooper’s
I Want Some Old English Scandal
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