Sir Rowelph And The Witch

on a rearing steed Sir Rowelph rode and rode, he rode through snorting nose of thunderous fan, his stallion galloping, charging, claiming land to the rhythm of a drummer’s hand down silt and dust, a lust did wilt as love was lost, Sir Rowelph damned his sweet’ lay buried not hours past now race, did race from nature’s wrath and blurred a woodland’s span a lady, young, on bended knee, knelt finely picking summer things and pick, did pick up petals fair berries, mosses, spiders there this lady and her dainty looks not old and haggard from storybooks but had a company of crows and rooks did flow and fly by all she took, and take up in a basket, talk, she’d talk to her familiars as she came across a fallen man she helped him to her mottled shack where hobbled bottles shelves they stack and rack in crooked disarray, the shack it lay off the beaten track away in woodland fray and they, did they, spend all their day of day upon each passing moon and soon betrothed became one May, she found her knight, a handsome sight, she’d say but nay if passed him on that fateful day where she found him once again Sir Rowelph rode his rearing steed had fallen broken neck indeed lay dead and dead remain did he when seen by she a passing witch, poisoned dead from summer things she’d picked and fed and dined, each time he’d ride, she’d find help him away to a rundown shiel and like a wheel so turn, did turn this haunting quern, and quern and grind forever ghosts eternally