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
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