A Wild Rose and a Thorn

Upon wild fields, yonder o'er hill and valley
Tread with gaily laugh and bared sole and heel
Did wander, 'pon that summer's day, a young man
Dancing jig, singing song, and turning reel.

Poor footing found the wanderer falling,
tumbling arse o'er tea-kettle fair.
When stuck in sole and arching heel,
a thorn, singular, painful. Rare.

'Mong wild roses did the wanderer keen,
bleating in pain, a whimper, a moan.
A rash and foolish wanderer he,
To think 'mong wild roses he could roam.

Piercing flesh and spilling blood, down and down tumbled he
till 'pon the ground did wanderer te'er,
tripped up, splayed out, and dirt-strewn
to find more thorns pricked through his rear.

'Woe!' cried the wanderer, clutching his foot,
eyes pricked with tears and cheeks red with pain
'Help, oh help me!' welped the wanderer, aloud, alone,
But his cries were for naught, empty, and in vain.

Then came the Wild Rose, amongst the flowers sharp and fair
Her eyes like citrine, glimmered in the summer sun
Her armor a mirror for the wanderer's pain
Her hair a raven-wing, luscious, dark, and rare

She bent a-double, to inspect the wanderer
and upwards looked, seeking comfort, soothing,
But the Wild Rose is a fickle thing
And her comfort was a laugh, a tear, and a musing

"Why lie you here, poor wanderer-boy?" asked the Wild Rose
Her smile a crescent moon of dancing light.
"Why lie you here, poor wanderer-boy?" asked the Wild Rose, again
And all he could do is scamper away, in fright

For you do not look the Wild Rose in the eye
And live to tell the tale.


Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 18th of Slyphian, in the year 501 MA.