Her head a-spun with rapid anger, her bare feet in mud.
Ambers of brown foretelling treason beheld her weary head,
She swayed aside, and then – again; – he caught her fall instead.
Her mind as that of the possessed spun down a rapid hole,
Escape she did not seek for fires in brown had told her all.
And yet, that scarlet sparkle she gave him with both hands,
He knew – it spoke of treason – and yet he loved again.
The fire of the brown and thunder he knew and loved so well –
Thoughts of escape and treason foretold, beheld, but never stayed.
“Lean on my shoulder,” – he said – “and rest your weary head:
The scarlet sparkle speaks of dawns and not of fires instead.”
Of words so simple, words so kind, the fires of amber shied away; -
The whiplash of a scarlet sparkle blushed shyly, like a maiden’s gaze.
She felt the sky, her feet in mud, she felt the soothing rain –
She let her weary hair down, she gave him all her pain.
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Beautiful poem
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