Bride to Be (part fourteen)

Bride to Be (part fourteen)

Not much past the sun’s departure

Evenings of late winter grow too chill

For outdoor fires and cloaks of fur

Bodies huddled close on couches

Where murmured stories ebb and the call of hunting wolves

From dens at fall of dark in single file

Emerge, and the whistle of an owl

And the amber honeyed mead, its rich smell

And the smoke of burning logs

The Queen stands, in duty to her guests

then all slough off their coverings

And raise themselves on stiffened limbs

And trailed by servants the company

Carry to chambers their private thoughts

Men belonging to King Alderic had ridden

To the shepherd whose wool they were wont to buy

The herder whose ewes gave milk and cheese

The turf-huts with plots of cumbering vines

And carrots, and cabbage, and tonic greens

Elderberries stooped by the pruning knife

Their ripened fruits and cleansing wine

Dogs who had keened their warning cries

And six fair homes at waterside

where potters and weavers and saddlers plied

Search as they would, the countryside

Not a soul remained

Queen Tamarilde’s father had done this thing

Bride to Be

Bride to Be (part fifteen)

(2021, Stephanie Foster)