Monica Bartsch Poet Quatrain

The Captain

I met him along a winding road,
Where the golden honey flowed.
The road had not ebb or rough bend,
nor was there a journey’s end.
But he was the captain.

In the middle of the lane he stood,
Tall as the elm wood.
He had no ship nor crew,
And his friends were few.
But he was the captain. 

Tales echoed across the town,
Filled with fair folk all around.
Tales of this young and spry lad.
Dark and handsomely clad.
He was the captain.

He was strong as a wild ox, 
Yet wise as an old fox.
Fair was his golden hair,
And bright his eyes of care.
He was the captain.

His voice was soft and gentle,
His posture monumental. 
His limbs as thick as wood
Yet his spirit misunderstood.
For he was the captain.

Now he stands on the fair green hill,
His body shinning and still. 
He beckons to me with his hand.
And I meet him upon the sand. 
He was the captain.

I tiptoe with silken girdle,
My heart sighing at the hurdle.
With lace at my throat, I weep.
As his velvet kiss I keep.
 He was the captain.

“I wait for the dawn,” says he,
“Where with her I may be.”
I look on with salty tears.
As to me, his love he declares. 
He was the captain.

He leaves the golden shore.
And embraces the sea’s door.
 I reach the thimble’s top to spend,
The fleeting days till the end.
He is my captain.

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