PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Two lovers fled to one life on a plain

and common farm, far in the North domain

of Henry's somewhat ostentatious power;

and, later on, Lady Elizabeth

(her child), would come for secret visits too.

The baleful shadows of the high-walled Tower---

where Anne awaited her impending death

(by sword, not ax, and yet as coldly dreaded)---

proved useful, for the sparing of that hour.

A substitute, veiled well, was seen beheaded;

and witnesses said the expected thing

(paid quite well to do so) unto the king.

Silenced by gold or, even more so, fear

of implication in conspiracy,

they held their peace so we could disappear

and live, obscurely safe, from kingly view.

What she had been, or thought she was, no more

obtained; although by some judged as a whore,

she was, rather, a brash, misguided girl---

by sires' desires wed to a royal churl . . .

then.  But henceforth she dwelt in modesty,

untainted by contempt or by conceit.

And when the neighbors came for bread, or meat,

they all enjoyed her casual friendliness---

ignored by gossip, and by history

already.  From the first, she often said

she found her heart having not lost her head.

What neither Henry kept, nor Wyatt sought,

became mine solely, and so fully brought

me joy unbound; told in this poetry.

And, when the first stars constellated night,

and beauty glowed like gentle candle-light,

the Lady scampered almost nakedly,

keeping only her stockings on for bed.

And at its edge, I sprawled out on the floor

(summoned there by that smile so purely sweet),

and gave my unclad flesh to the caress

of her exclusive, eager, stockinged feet.