Upon the jagged rock,
Where cloven hooves did trot.
A maiden clothed in dock,
Thought life was meant for naught.
Adorned in nature's frock,
Awaiting wind's onslaught.
Ticktock, ticktock, the clock
She dreamed of love a lot.
From China to Bangkok,
Wind brought the storms mascot.
He wished, that young warlock.
The devil's charms besought.
Two footprints stomped bedrock
Where, dreams remained bethought.
Beneath the black nighthawk,
The maiden heard gunshot.
The hunter drank cognac.
He passed through a sandlot.
Then, met that old warlock.
Good luck was all he sought.
The devil owned the rock.
The maiden's hope was naught.
The hunter could not talk.
The wind's good luck was wrought.
Within the storms airlock,
Those two with Satan fought.
The hawk began to squawk.
The hunter luck was bought.
Then came the storms windsock.
To waft the dreams besought.
Where love, its coursers walk.
Her wish was finally wrought.
© May 29, 2011
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Jack OUT of the Box
Sponsored by: Debbie Guzzy
Categories:
coursers, hope
Form: Ballad