When I was six and ten some years ago
My brother lept into his muddy tomb
My mother died upon the rocks below
And father followed after to his mortal doom.
I was the orphan without personage
The daughter veiled from bows and frilly lace
The girl who climbed along the mountain’s ridge
And owned a small and sooty little face.
You see the watchman’s daughter, dark and cloaked
Concealed before she makes her last reprieve
To trade our lives and never be revoked
Would be a gift quite wondrous to receive:
The girl wakes up beside the mountains high
And I, beside her love, a’sleeping lie.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry