A poem about a phantom woman who haunts a graveyard and lures lovers to their demise |
The Hawthorn Bride My hawthorn bride, eyes blazing afire Wedding dress train of crisp fallen leaves Leaves of Beech and leaves of my notebook Stained with the lichen and the moss of my dreams, We carved our hearts on the lychgate deeply She carved between beats, a heart upon mine With a sharpened quill of honeysuckle coil We lay between crypts and the sweet scent of thyme, We kissed in knowing, kindred kismet Drowning in her hair, and scent, and her eyes Drawing our love from the deep blackened well I needed, I wanted for you to be mine, As the sun broke horizon, vision of her faded I grasped for her hand but it passed through the mist Now I'm here, all alone, on my knees, in the graveyard Her wedding train lies, just leaves in the wind, Yet there on the oaken post of the lychgate Two hearts carved deep centuries ago And the crumpled paper of the poems I wrote her Smouldered and burned in a soft violet glow I lay and allow the cold leaves to shroud me, I lay and allow the winter to erode I lay and allow the Crows and the Magpies Beholden to the earth, they feast on my bones, My hawthorn bride visits me scarcely She caresses the side of my half sunken skull Her tears bring bright the moss that grows freely Where my eye used to be, when my cup was full, The seasons pass slowly, each taking its toll With it's roots an Oak pins my spine to the ground One bright autumn day, I am hidden no longer Beneath leaves, my bones, a young man has found He kneels beside me and writes his sweet poems A poet, a dreamer, who awaits his fair bride, I try to warn of the fate that befalls him Yet I am silenced and muted by time's mighty tide, Wedding dress train of leaves and his paper Lo, the beautiful bride, she doth glide into sight, Carving two hearts on the lychgate by moonlight Sweeping over my bones as they dance to the night, Alas, all too soon he is crumpled beside me Whispering her name in his last lonely breath Lost, marooned in this lonely old graveyard With the crows and magpies awaiting his death, The Hawthorn Bride, she lingers in the ether For a hundred winters while I decay into parts Waits for her paramour venturing beneath That old oaken lychgate that is furnished with hearts. |