Rosalind
He stands atop the ancient towers, both grey and cold as skies
Which howl about and bow the trees, and blow his longish hair—
His countenance stern, he stares below to where his army lies;
Full bodied knights on chargers swift, with strength and skill to spare.
Across the moor, tempestuous skies recall the sounds of war;
Of legions lost, of fierce assaults, just as the wailing wind.
With stalwart pride and courage bold, a pilgrimage afar
Will leave behind the fortress, and the tears of Rosalind.
Although she weep and wilt away, he still must onward go,
Nor will turn back until he's sacked the distant Irish shore.
She, from her window watches him depart as bugles blow;
Face bathed in tears, she greatly fears she'll never see him more.
As warriors weave a path across the Connemara Isle,
Their fate may be of pain and loss, or death could be the cost:
And thus, resigned, was Rosalind— her courage must not fail.
The castle walls are cold as stone, but love is never lost.
Though love my fly, or love may flee, love's blind and cannot see
The growing gulf 'twixt man and maid, as mainsails catch the wind:
And salty spray sides down his face, out on the open sea,
As at her window, facing west, fall tears of Rosalind.
Each fragment of her hope resounds against the shadowed moon:
Two seasons pass, then springtime comes to cast the gloom away.
At last! Her warrior, crowned by sun, rides down a purple dune!
Her anguish lifts just as the mist. Within his arms she'll stay!
{Collaboration by Carrie Richards and Isaiah Zerbst
Written from August 10-25, 2015}
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2015
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